


Escape

by moonkittie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 75,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7663747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonkittie/pseuds/moonkittie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sansa had still been trapped in Winterfell, with Ramsay, when Jon ended his watch? Of course, he'd make every effort to rescue the last sibling he thinks he has. Then together, they would face the road, and run. And together, they would reclaim their home, and eachother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa, stands, her robe at her feet, examining her injuries with careful scrutiny. There is a row of knife marks, like he'd been keeping count, on both sides of her hips. Bruises, on her hands and ankles, from the restraints. Bite marks on the inner of her pale white thighs. The bottoms of her feet, burnt and scarred, and barely healed. He hadn't taken her last escape attempt lightly, and thought injuring her feet and legs might deter her from trying again.

Her chin trembles once, but she allows herself no tears. Instead, she dresses again. The door is locked from the outside, in this room, and she knows it will be a while before she is permitted beyond it again.

She tries to settle herself by embroidering. Needles are the last of the sharp objects she has access to. Too much of a chance for escape, whether it be through the death of herself or the death of someone else.

She wouldn't kill herself, not yet. The amount of suffering she's withstood, she could withstand a bit more, she knew she still had it in herself. She had the strength to continue existing. On some level, she knew this was only temporary.

So she waits. She sits by the fire, her limbs trembling slightly, both from the cold and their now constant ache. Every night, she is broken again and again. Ramsay promises he will tame her, like a wild horse, and that she requires lots of breaking. Her struggling had become too irritating, so he'd begun tying her to the bed, and leaving her that way throughout the night. She hadn't slept comfortably in months. Everything hurt. Her world was pain.

Outside, the wind howled viciously. It had been a couple weeks now, since the death of Walda and Roose, at the hand of Ramsay, Sansa knew, but she couldn't speak to it.

As the day wears on, her anxiety grows. She is blinded from it, by the time night has fallen. She is nothing but fear, now, the embodiment of panic and terror. Like a bird, trapped in a glass case, only understanding it's doom, slamming itself against the walls.

When Ramsay arrives, he's oddly quiet, not his usual jeering self. No mocking words, not for her tonight.

But his way with her, this night, it is particularly gruesome. He busies himself with finding new things to shove inside of her, sticks and tools, sharp little things that make Sansa cry out and even scream with pain. He watches this all with a dull, nearly bored face.

And, unusually, he leaves when he's finished, usually choosing to fall asleep beside her, so she can cry silently until she eventually passes out.

Sansa is left tied to the bed, tears rolling down her cheeks. She shuts her eyes, trying to catch her breath, trying to numb the pain with just her thoughts. She is sure she is bleeding, she is sure she is just as damaged as ever.

* * *

His watch has ended. So he leaves. He packs all his belongings, ties them to a horse, and makes plans to head south, alone. To get warm. To find peace.

It is only mentioned to him, off handedly, by a man, about his sister, and the Boltons. He knew of the Boltons, of course, he knew who was responsible for Robb's and Catelyn's deaths. He knew the name as well as anyone, but the fact she was there, with one of them, behind the walls of her childhood home. It awoke something inside Jon he hadn't felt in a long time.

Outside the walls of Winterfell, behind the cover of trees, shrouded in black in the still of the night, Jon watches Winterfell with fascination. He'd been there for days, in the forest, knowing the trees like the back of his hand. He was waiting, watching. Memorizing the movements of the guards, strategizing. Finding a window.

He knew where she was. He'd seen her, just a flash of her, for a moment, closing a curtain in the window of the main bedroom, the one his father and Catelyn had once shared. And again, opening it. A flash of red gold hair, a shade he'd only ever seen in her. He knew it instantly. He felt it.

From what he'd gathered on the road, from commoners or inn keeps, bar maidens or farmers; Ramsay was a monster, gladly flaying whoever he felt he could. Torturing men for years, keeping them locked away in secret. Jon knew that there was no way he could get caught. It would get them both killed, or worse yet, he'd be locked away, and Sansa would stay trapped there, knowing how close they could have been.

He knew where he'd scale the wall, he'd done it himself many a time, and seen Bran, younger than him, do it again, hundreds of times in his youth. He knew every hand hold, every place on that wall. With the week he'd been watching, he'd memorized the movements, and he knew exactly the point of execution, he must take it.

The plan was, hopefully, that Sansa would be alone, but it looked like Ramsay stayed with her most nights. So he'd have to kill him. It wouldn't be hard, no, but the element of surprise would be. If he had a chance to alert any guards to assist him, Jon would die.

Then the leaving, if it got to that point. If he got Sansa outside the walls, quietly, they could make it. They could get out. Where they would go, of course, was another concern entirely.

It was near two in the morning. Jon left the horse tied to a nearby tree, and in the cover of darkness, headed to the distant castle, keeping low, against the ground, in case anyone did happen to glimpse him. He wasn't worried. The Bolton men, while there was strength in numbers, were not trained in an upkeep and guard of a manor the size of Winterfell. In fact, Jon noticed multiple holes in their guard efforts. They were clearly incompetent.

So he moved across the blackness, to the walls. And when his hands met the freezing stone, below the window above, he sighed in sweet relief, knowing he was that much closer.

* * *

Sansa stared at the ceiling above her, at the chandelier, covered in candles, now extinguished. Sleep had not yet come for her. Outside, she listened as the guards switched every few minutes, moving across the old wooden floors with a constant repetition. The wind howled, as it always did. The courtyard was now quiet, but would liven with sound and activity in a few hours. She figured it must be two, three in the morning, maybe, from the way the moonlight hit the wall across from her.

There was a sudden noise at the door, and she sighed, sure that Ramsay had returned for her. The lock jangled, and the door fell open. She closed her eyes, listening as the door was shut quietly.

Jon wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. Sansa, slack, against restraints on her hands and ankles. Her eyes were closed, her head to one side, her hair spilling over her chest and face. She wasn't covered, it was freezing in the room, with no fire. Marks all over her skin. He had to pause, to gather himself, to swallow the bile of rage rising in his throat.

He reached her, kneeling beside the bed. He gently placed a hand on her mouth, to stifle any scream of surprise she may unintentionally utter. With his free thumb, he pushed the hair from her face. She winced, her eyes shutting tighter.

"Sansa." he said, his voice barely a whisper.

At the new, strange voice, her eyes opened wide, and she squirmed, trying to free herself. Her eyes focused on his, and after a brief pause, recognition alighted behind them. Then, tears. Tears of relief.

"You have to be quiet, alright?" he said, leaning closer to her. She nodded, desperately. He unsheathed the dagger at his hip, and reached for the rope on her ankles first, slicing it quickly, and then the rope on her hands. She let her arms fall, trembling, and after a moment, she reached for cover, realizing how cold she was.

"My cloak." she said softly, indicating the fine white fur lined cloak hanging in the corner. He stood, grabbing it, and helped it around her shoulders. She was shaking, he could see, even in the dim light the moon offered. He wished he could offer her some words of comfort, but words had never been Jon's strong point. Actions, was where he excelled.

She looked at him, letting her body warm up for a moment, holding the cloak around her naked shoulders. She felt a burst of shame, that he'd seen her in such an unmodest way, but she buried that as quickly as it had bubbled up in her stomach. Instead, she reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, and held her tightly against his chest. He heard her utter a soft sob, against his neck, but this was the only noise she uttered. He let her hold to him for a long while, not wanting to rush the delicate situation.

He finally forced himself to pull back, and helped her to her feet. When she stood, her knees buckled, and she fell back onto the bed. He held her face in her hands, meeting her eyes.

"We have to move fast, and be very quiet."

"I can't do this, Jon." she admitted.

"Of course you can." he said. "You have me, now, come on, we have to-"

She crossed on knee over the other, so he could see the bottom of her cold, nearly blue, pale feet. Crossed with burns and other wounds, some even seeped blood.

"And I don't have shoes." she said, her voice breaking. "I can hardly walk."

Jon paused for a second, only trying to solve the problem they now faced. The rage, he felt, at Ramsay, for hurting her in every awful way - that anger could wait until they were safe.

He looked around the room, and spotted a fur laying across a chair. He crossed to it, and cut it neatly in half with his knife. Then, with the rope he'd cut free from her, he wrapped the fur around her feet, tightly, and in many layers, creating some very Wildling looking footwear. He tied it, with a strong knot, and stood, looking down at them proudly.

She nodded, approving them. Sure she would still be in pain, as she walked, but that didn't matter. Her feet would not freeze.

"And something to cover you?" he asked. She stood, still limping slightly, and crossed to the wardrobe. She pulled out her thickest dress, heavy wool, lined in fur. Without waiting for him to turn, she dropped the cloak, and hurriedly pulled the dress over her head. She tied the cloak back on, and found her gloves, pulling them on as well.

They both froze, as they heard footsteps outside the room. But they passed, and she sighed.

"We have to go, right now." Jon said, urgency in his voice.

"The guards are changing." she said, concerned.

"Aye. It's our window." he said, and from his back, unsheathed Longclaw. He reached for her hand.

"Oh gods." she whimpered, looking at him. "What about Theon? He'll kill him...for sure-"

Jon, taken aback for half a moment at Theon's name, shook his head.

"I don't care." he said gruffly. "We don't have time to think about...Sansa, please."

He tugged her arm, and this time, she went, following him to the door. He was counting mentally, and she watched his lips moved as he timed the window between the two guards changing duty.

Then, he shook the handle. It was locked.

He swore. Sansa thought she might crumble. He hadn't known it would lock from the inside.

"Hang on." she said. "Give me your knife, quickly." she said.

This was another reason she'd been forbidden any objects other than needles. Two previous escapes, and both times she'd easily been able to jingle the lock free with the small tools she'd gotten hold of.

With shaking hands, she inserted the knife in the small space between the door and the hinge. She wiggled it, as quietly as she could, and felt it loosening. Then there was a click, and it opened, barely, just a crack.

The guard would be posted across the hall though, she knew this now. She pulled Jon close, whispering this in his ear. Perhaps, with the right amount of surprise, the guard could be killed with no alert being made.

He nodded, and imagined this unfolding. He pictured the guard, how he stood, the makeup of the Bolton armor. Where he could hit, how fast he could, with no noise.

He nodded again, accepting this as the only option. This was the only guard, as well, between them and the wall he'd climbed up.

He reached for Sansa, kissing her on the forehead, and then smoothing her hair back.

"If this doesn't work, I'm sorry." he said gruffly. She shook her head.

"It will." she said. Her belief in him instilled the determination he'd been lacking.

Jon was fast. With the door opening, it was only two steps to the guard. Before the guard could react, move for his weapon, or even open his mouth to shout, Jon had pressed his sword through his throat. He gently lowered the body of the man onto the ground, so it wouldn't make a thump, and he pulled the sword away, slowly, silently.

He reached for Sansa, and she followed him, grabbing hold onto his hand.

In the silence, and the dim light of the moon, they reached the edge of the castle, where the wall was low. Sansa's heart pounded in her chest, and she gripped the stones.

Jon wordlessly threw his leg over first, and then motioned for her to follow, so he could be below her to catch her, if she happened to slip.

He easily lowered herself on the stones, climbing down a ways, and looked back up at Sansa. Watching her as she did the same, throwing her leg over, and beginning to slowly find footholds in the darkness, to scale down.

They were halfway down when she slipped, letting out a small noise of surprise. He caught her, using all his strength to pull her against the wall again, and hurrying down beside her. She was breathing heavily, and looking back up at the wall in fear.

He put her hand on her back, assuring her. They were nearly there.

Despite the pain in her feet, hands, and well, her entire body, Sansa forced herself to keep moving. She took it slow, one step down, and then feel for the next foothold. And then the next. And so on, until, blessedly, she felt her feet make contact with the snow, and felt Jon helping her down, his hands on her waist so she was steady.

"One last stretch, alright?" he said, looking at her. She nodded, breathing heavily. "We just have to stay low, against the ground, so we don't catch any light from the moon. So stay in shadow, and don't stand too high."

They began the trek across the snowy plain, moving quickly, both crouched low as they did. Sansa's body began to ache from the cold, and all her wounds screamed out in protest. Tears sprung in her eyes and solidified on her cheeks, but she ignored this.

As soon as they reached the tree line, Sansa stumbled, and fell to her knees. She gasped, letting the icy cold air fill her lungs. She pulled herself around, into a sitting position, and put her face between her legs, trying to settle herself.

Jon knelt beside her, resting an awkward hand on her back. She looked up at him, and smiled, a strangely lost, disbelieving smile.

"It's nice to see you." she said softly, and he laughed.

From the trees, Ghost approached, from behind Jon, and Sansa let out a yelp of surprise at the size of him.

"You'll be alright to ride?" he asked.

"Ride him?" she sputtered, looking up at the direwolf.

"No," Jon said, and then laughed again. "no, I have a horse, just a bit further. We have to ride a ways, to make distance between us and whatever search party they'll send out tomorrow morning."

"To the wall." she said, matter of fact.

"No." he said. He stood, offering her a hand. She looked up at him, puzzled, and then her eyes widened.

"Oh Jon." she said, letting him help her up. "So we're both running?"

"Sansa, come." he said, pulling her along. "We have a lot to talk about."


	2. Chapter 2

They rode in silence, together, through the dark woods, heading south. He'd rode about a mile in first, to give them a thicker cover of trees, and then turned the horse, south.

Sansa had sat up straight at first, her anxiety getting the best of her. But with every step the horse took, the more relaxed she felt, the safer she was. She eventually leaned against Jon's chest, slightly at first, but now heavily so. She let herself feel the reality of his arms on either side of her, holding the bridle. Exhausted, she felt herself nodding off here and again, but did her best to keep sleep at bay.

Despite her best efforts, she found herself slipping out of consciousness. She fell asleep, her cheek pressed against the hollow between Jon's arm and shoulder. They rode like this, Sansa breathing softly, Jon focusing on the road ahead and trying not to move his arms, until dawn broke in the distance.

Sansa started awake a few hours later, and Jon had to tighten his arms around her, as she moved so suddenly, frightened, to keep her from falling off the horse.

"Morning." Jon said, and she turned, smiling at him slightly.

"Can we afford to stop?" she asked, her voice timid. "I need to, er." she trailed off, her brows furrowed.

"Yes, we can, just up here, beside the creek. I have some food, as well, but we'll need to find shelter eventually. Do you know of any loyalists nearby who would give you shelter?"

"I'm afraid not." she said gently. "The fear he's instilled in the people is truly...something. And most people might recognize me, when they hear the lord's wife is on the run. Or, as he might spin it, kidnapped."

"Right." Jon said, and dismounted. He held his hand out for Sansa, who dropped to the ground. She held onto the horse's flank, steadying herself. When she walked, her feet screamed in protest. Her chin quivered, which Jon noticed, but she forced herself back into stoicism.

"Sansa, we need to take care of your wounds."

"They can wait." she insisted. "Until we're somewhere safer. Are you sure the wall is out of the question?" she asked, thinking of the men they had there.

"No." he said. "Sansa, they killed me."

She sighed, remembering. She limped over to the water, and sat on a rock. She untied the makeshift boots, to inspect her feet. She hissed, as the wounds screamed in protest after being forced into cold air. She looked at them carefully, at the swelling.

"We have to clean it." Jon said, as he joined her next to the rock. He returned to the horse, and from it's pack, dug out some gauze, and then, after some searching, he found a silver flask of whiskey he brought for the coldest nights.

He returned to her, sitting at her feet. He pulled her bare foot into his lap, squeezing the toes to usher blood into them, to keep the frost at bay.

He unscrewed the flask, and Sansa whimpered. He looked up at her.

"It'll be over fast." he said. "And the last thing we need is your foot falling off from infection."

She nodded, and shut her eyes tight. When he poured the alcohol over her cuts, she cried out. When the initial pain stopped, the ache had continued, and seemed worse now. She groaned, biting down on her lip, as Jon quickly bound the foot with the gauze. Then, deftly, he reattached her shoe, tying up the fur tight.

He squeezed her knee, reassuring her. She let out a shuddering sigh, and he reached forward, brushing the hardened ice tears off her cheeks.

"Next foot, please." he said. She switched legs, and he did the same with the second foot, earning him another anguished cry and another layer of guilt for causing her pain. "There you are." he said with finality.

She nodded, setting her feet back down. She leaned forward, pushing her hair away from her face. A thought occurred to her as she saw the bright red wisps in the corner of her eye.

"I have an idea." she said. "That might keep us from getting recognized."

"Oh?" he asked. "Anything would help."

"My hair." she said. She grabbed a lock of it sadly. "People might not know Sansa Stark's face, but my hair color gives me away. It's how I hid my identity at the vale. I just need some charcoal, and some hot water."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Aye." she said. "In fact, give me your knife." she said, and held out her hand, waiting. He handed it over. She pulled her hair away from her neck, and cut it swiftly. It hung to her shoulders, now. She began to drop the clump of hair, but Jon grabbed her hand quickly.

"We're trying not to be followed." he said, gently. She smiled, embarrassed. He took the handful of her long golden hair, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, and added it to the pack. Sansa walked a few paces away to hide behind a tree and relieve herself. Her body hurt, and when she passed urine, she had to stifle her cry of pain. Ramsay had an affection for abusing her kidneys, and now everytime she went, it brought blood and horrible discomfort.

"Are you sure we have time for that?" she asked, when she returned, Jon was building a small fire.

"Shouldn't take long." he said. "And the mist will shroud our smoke. But your hair idea is a good one, Sansa, and we need to change it as soon as possible. The charcoal can sit on your head for a while, while we ride. We'll approach Barrowton soon, and get an inn, so you can rest. Nobody will recognize you."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"We'll be a days ahead of the search party by then." he said. "And word of you missing might not even reach them until after we're gone. You need to sleep, Sansa." he said. "We both do."

"The dogs will trace us." he said.

"Not with the snow falling like this." he said. "It'll bury our scent within an hour. They might not even think to come this direction. If Ramsay assumes it was me, he'll go to the wall. The word hasn't been released I'm no longer Lord Commander."

"Fine." she said, still nervous. She needed to trust Jon, she thought, but trust was not an easy thing for Sansa to do.

The paste had done it's job. Sansa had deeply black raven hair, even darker than she had done in the vale. She and Jon looked more like siblings now than ever. He couldn't help but notice how particularly striking she looked, with her Tully blue eyes contrasting heavily with her now black hair.

After the day broke, they moved faster, usually urging the horse to run through the trees. Sansa grew tired from the riding before lunchtime, although she knew it would be days more of this, and urged herself to keep on. She sometimes rode in front of Jon, sometimes behind him. She got to know the feel of his belly, the strength of his arms, the angles where his legs met his torso, all very quickly. She wondered, vaguely, if these were the attributes that other girls admired in men. If anything, she'd grown to fear them. Would Ramsay have hit as hard, if his muscles on his arm were less defined?

It's not like she feared Jon, but now, away from the clutches of Ramsay, she could again objectively ponder the realities of their world. And then, the memories would fly back, and the panic, and the fact that they were not safe, nowhere near safe. That every step away from him, every moment away, could only be just as temporary.

They made a stop to eat a rabbit Jon had hunted, later in the evening. Jon insisted she clean her feet again. She said only if she could have a drink of the whiskey before he poured it on.

They ate the rabbit with their fingers, and Jon grinned cheekily at Sansa, as she had grease smeared on her cheeks after eating.

"What?" she asked, swatting at him with a hand. "It's not as if it's very possible for me to eat my rabbit like a lady in these circumstances."

"It's not that." he said, shaking his head. "It's that you look so lovely, eating like this."

She rolled her eyes, standing to go wash her hands and face in the nearby running creek.

She walked around the brush, and froze. Before her, drinking out of the cold passing water, was a direwolf. And not the one she recognized. This one was shaggy, grey fur, with a white chest. Dark brown eyes, as opposed to Ghost's red. The wolf eyed her suspiciously, and then it's hackles rose.

"Jon!" she whisper shrieked, and the next moment, she heard a sheen of metal, and Jon was behind her, slipping on the rocks just above.

They stared at the beast for a long while, the both of them, in complete stillness. Ghost was far off, Jon realized, hunting. He willed him to return that much faster, but for the moment, they were standing alone across from the direwolf.

Sansa squinted, turning her head, trying to recognize the beast. It felt oddly familiar, and sought out memories of the direwolves they'd had as children. Then, with a small gasp, she realized.

"Nymeria." she whispered, in awe. The wolf blinked, and then ducked her head, slightly, in an incline.

Jon struggled to figure out what she'd meant, and then it clicked. That had been the name of Arya's wolf. The one she'd forced to run away, he remembered, from a letter she'd sent him in his early weeks at the wall. She'd write him letters, for the first year, before the death of their father. But he'd always treasured them, and had reread them so many times, he'd practically had them memorized.

Sansa stepped forward, her heart racing. She reached her hand up, cautiously, in the direction of the muzzle of the beast. She shut her eyes, realizing if she was wrong, and this was a wild beast, her arm was about to get torn off.

After a moment, the beast leaned forward, and in the space between it's eyes, pressed her head on the skin of Sansa's outstretched hand. Sansa gasped, and let out a small sob of relief. She moved back, and the wolf jumped, stepping away quickly in surprise. Sansa took another deep breath, and stepped back slowly herself. She reached back, for Jon, hoping he'd grasp onto her hand and pull her away.

She felt his hand take hers, and sure enough, she felt herself being tugged into his arms, and Longclaw sliding in front of her, across the velvet smooth front of her belly.

Nymeria moved again, bowing low now, and onto her stomach, laying partially in the creek.

Jon glanced behind him, sensing movement. Ghost stood above them all, looking down at the beast in the creek. Nymeria whined, and rolled over, a sign of submission. Ghost snorted, and muzzled Jon's shoulder, assuring him it was fine.

From then on, Ghost ran beside the horses, or trailed just behind, Nymeria now at his side. For the forest, Sansa was glad to have another source of protection, but knew if they ran into anyone on the road, or in a town, that saw them beside the wolves, they'd be outed as true Starks immediately.

Jon had a way with Ghost, though, and knew if it came to that, Jon could have his animal stay hidden in the forest while they went through a town.

Soon, they could smell woodsmoke in the distance. It was near black out now, and Jon was thankful for this extra layer of protection. They rode upon the town, and up to the inn. Inside was a clamor of activity, the ruckus of a bar.

Sansa pulled her cloak low over her face, and taking Jon's hand, looping her fingers through his, they went into the bar.

Nobody seemed to have a chance to notice the new couple, most of them were surrounding a pair of men playing a drinking game, shouting bets and insults. Jon asked for a room for himself and his wife. They were given an attic bedroom, with a peak window, looking down at the horses. The walls were low, but Sansa didn't mind, as she just crawled into bed.

She urged Jon to sleep as well, but he said he wanted to wait, and listen to the noise of downstairs, in case anyone heard or said anything about Winterfell.

She settled deep into the soft feather mattress, and tried to focus on the weight of Jon beside her. She knew it was him, she assured herself, he smelt so much different than Ramsay. While Ramsay smelled usually of cold metal, or acidic fire starter or hand wash, or of a dinner he'd eaten the night before. Jon smelled like warmth, like leather, woodsmoke, and the faint earthy smell of him, just him. Oddly familiar. In her sleep, she numbly reached out, for his hand, and he curled his fingers, rough against her soft skin, around her hand.

He listened to the commotion downstairs, which continued for a long while as it's usual beck and call, drunken men singing and swearing into the night. It wound down, and the only mention he heard of them was a slimy comment about the ass on Lady Bolton these days.

He fell asleep, glad for the warmth of Sansa near his leg. He had Longclaw right beside him, and slept curled around the unsheathed blade, ready to be wield at any moment, just in case.

But they slept, unbothered, for a good 5 hours, before Jon shook her awake and insisted they continue on.

They had a long way to go.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long few days, but both Sansa and Jon were feeling like the escape had been successful. They even had a chance to catch up, trading stories of their lives since they'd left Winterfell. Sansa gave Jon every detail she could think of, of her time in King's Landing. He dutifully listened to her, for hours, as she sat in front of him on the horse, staring into the trees before them.

He listened, and occasionally asked questions, entranced with the soft cadence of her voice, so casual as she regaled tales of her own suffering. At some points in the story, she watched his hands tighten around the bridle of the horse, ever so slightly. He didn't say anything, for there wasn't a lot he could say. None of it had been either of their faults.

The snow had stopped falling the further they got to the South. It wasn't warmer, the ice was still hardened on the ground below them, the trees still steeped in a heavy blanket of white. As for the wind and snow, these had both quieted.

They went on roads, occasionally. Passed by local tradesmen, or children playing on the road nearest their cottage, hidden in the trees. Mostly, though, it was just the pair of them, alone in the silent stretches of forest, not even birds to break the still stoniness of the air.

When it was Jon's turn to share, he found himself pouring out everything. Without even realizing it, he hadn't spoken life to the reality of his past in one sitting, ever. And Sansa listened as patiently as he had, quietly, her face pressed against his back, listening to the rumble of his voice in his chest. She asked questions here and again, to confirm people's names, or to have him expand in one area she wanted to know more about. He even told her of Ygriette, of everything, of the cave and holding her in his arms as she died.

She leaned forward, around his shoulder, looking up at him. His face didn't reflect how upset he had sounded, and he looked at her in dull surprise.

"What?" he asked. "Surprised it was a wildling?"

"It's just...surprising, to hear you speak like that, about a woman."

"Are you really that surprised? I mean, I know I took vows, but it didn't cease any natural...er, drives."

"No, that's not it." she said, leaning back, settling her forehead on his shoulder, as she thought. "I assumed, I suppose, when we were younger, you were this mysterious and bitter boy...who didn't have room in his heart for, well, tenderness, I suppose. I thought the wall was such a good fit for you."

"I guess that speaks to how truly apart we were." he said.

"I know, now, though. It's just a relief."

"A relief?"

"Yes." she said, thoughtfully. "That you are as gentle and kind as you are strong and fearless."

He paused, struck by the compliment, surprised at how it stirred him, deep below his belly. He cleared his throat, and nodded once.

"Thank you, Sansa." he said softly.

* * *

Ramsay rode upon Barrowton, flanked by ten men, with a thundering ferocity. He deftly hopped off the horse as it approached the Inn, and walked inside, a wide smile on his face.

He approached the bar, now two men following him. The barkeep saw the Flayed man, embossed on the armor of the men, and he winced.

"M'lord." he said, nodding deeply to Ramsay. "What an honor it is to have you in our humble shop."

"Aye." Ramsay said pleasantly, taking a seat at the greasy bar, tapping his fingers against the worn wood. "I do like to keep up on the local businesses so craftfully managed. And I'm hoping you could help me."

He continued smiling, slightly deranged, at the barman. The barkeep shuffled nervously, reaching for another glass to polish.

"Why, anything to help, of course, I'd be happy to oblige, m'lord."

"Well, Dryburn!" Ramsay said to one of his companions. "I told you the good people of Barrowton would be much more cooperative than King's Keep. Oh, you just wouldn't believe...it's been such a hassle." Ramsay sighed, looking back at the bartender. "The last innkeeper only cooperated _after_ I had to send his daughter to the dogs! And here you are, already offering us aid." he giggled, and then pointed towards a barrel tap behind him.

"Could I bother you for a drink, my good man?" he asked.

"Of course!" the keep said, nearly tripping over himself to get the glass filled, apologizing for not offering sooner.

"We have tragically, been stolen from." Ramsay whispered, leaning over the bar, looking at the other man earnestly. "My dear wife, she's been kidnapped. The lady of the north, now lost to us. We don't know who has taken her, or why, but we're very anxiously following every lead, and my dogs guided us here, after losing the trail for a long while. Is there anything you can tell us, perhaps a pair of people travelling through?"

The barkeep thought, hard, looking at the wall across from him. Then, he snapped up, sitting straight up, recalling them now.

"A couple, young couple, both with dark hair, stayed about 3 days ago, and left very early, long before dawn."

"My wife has red hair."

"Aye, sir." he said. "I'm afraid that's the only woman I've seen travelling though, in the last few weeks."

Ramsay nodded, and in a big flourish, finished his beer, and slammed the glass against the bar. The barkeep jumped.

"The man. What did he look like?"

"Dark hair, darker eyes, scruff on his face. Fine sword though. I remember, 'cause, ain't nobody with such fine swords usually stay here, they pay for the nicer inn, up the road, at Hatsworth, only a bit further. That or they sleep in their fine carriages, or what have you."

"Fine sword?" Ramsay puzzled at this.

"Could only be hewn at Winterfell, I 'spected, or perhaps Kings Landing."

Ramsay realized, and then smiled.

"I'd love to see him." he sighed, delighted. "and have a long chat, perhaps, one bastard to another."

* * *

Sansa and Jon had happened upon a cave, as the night was beginning to fall, and they needed shelter. The cave was behind a hill, hidden behind a curve of the stream, and shrouded mostly by a snowbank. It had been Sansa who'd spotted it, and now, they were inside, the wolves at the very back of the cave, Jon closer to the front, igniting a small fire. Sansa stood at the very mouth of the cave, looking out into the blackness of the sky above the trees, counting a small patch of stars. She sought out any constellations she remembered from her lessons as a child.

The cave lit up, as the flint finally caught. She turned, looking at Jon, crouched beside the fire. He looked tired, and she felt a wave of guilt, knowing it was her fault for the bags under his eyes. He looked up, saw her staring, and gave her a questioning look.

"What's the matter?" he asked softly.

"Nothing." she shook her head, giving him a reassuring grin. "I'm just...thinking of nothing, I suppose."

She crossed, and sat beside him.

He looked at her face, heart shaped, with defined bones. Her lashes so long, they nearly brushed her cheeks. She felt incredibly close to him now, and could hear the gentle and familiar sound of his breathing. She leaned closer to him, meeting his eyes.

Her eyes, without her realizing, were now resting firmly on his lips. She had a strange urge to reach out and touch them, to feel if they felt as soft as they appeared. He realized she was at the same time she did, and they met eachother's eyes, and both looked down, embarrassed, at the small growing fire.

Suddenly, there were voices in the distance. A woman, unfamiliar to them.

They both froze, listening.

"Come on, little lord, up now, we're nearly there, I know a cave just round this bend-"

Then, she fell silent. Sansa looked up at the walls, and saw some of the light from the fire was bouncing against them, out into the snow.

There was a low whine from the back of the cave, and Jon held his hand up, silencing the two wolves.

The voices were closer now, when they happened again. This time, a younger voice, in a whispered hush.

" _Quiet, Shaggydog."_ it said, gently.

Sansa and Jon exchanged shocked looks, standing at the same time.

"Rickon?" Sansa screamed, her voice breaking. She stumbled out of the cave, and towards the snowbank.

She pulled herself out, and into the thick snow, ignoring the slush falling into her boots. Just above the cave, was another direwolf, she saw this first, and beside it, a young boy, holding the hand of a wildwoman. The boy had to stare at the woman for a long moment, before he realized who it was. It was only the blue of her eyes, shining through the moonlit darkness, that made the memory solidify.

"Sansa!" he said, his eyes lighting up. He pushed Osha's hand off, moving through the snow now, as fast as he could.

He jumped at her, and they both fell into the snow. She tightened her grip around her baby brother's torso, holding him up to her, smelling his hair, kissing his face.

He was longer, lankier, and just hitting his awkward adolescent years. But Sansa saw him as the baby she'd carried for her mother, for the little boy who would sleepily lay beside her near the hearth at night, make her read him stories.

She helped him up, then, inspected him for any visible bodily harm. She sniffled, and Rickon looked bashful.

"What happened to your hair?" he asked, and then looked behind her, at Jon, who stood at the mouth of the cave. His mouth fell open, and then again, he was stumbling awkwardly through the snow, towards his brother.

Jon crouched down, pulling Rickon to his chest. He pulled him away the next moment, looking at him carefully.

"You've gotten taller." Jon said, and Rickon giggled.

The wildling was approaching Sansa now, slowly, looking her up and down.

"I thought you was supposed to have golden hair." Osha said, looking at her with narrow eyes.

"I do, normally." she said. "Where were you heading?"

"To the wall." Osha said. "We heard his brother was the lord commander, but I spect I got turned round, and we can't very well ask directions. We don't look like we's have any good reason to get to the wall. I thought we heard you was back in Winterfell."

"I was." Sansa said flatly, and returned to the cave, Osha just behind her.

"-and then Bran and I had to escape and get out of the Winterfell, because Theon was going to burn us, so we had to sneak out before he could, and we got separated-" Rickon was explaining in a rush to Jon.

They plodded into the cave, and out of the cold, Sansa ushering Rickon to the fire. She'd already made up a small bed roll, and they both sat side by side, in the warm furs they had. She listened as Rickon explained everything, excitedly, like he couldn't wait to tell them everything. To have someone share in the chaos of his life for the past few years.

Then, Jon and Sansa gave their accounts, as well as they could, trying to keep them condensed and concise, without causing the young boy more concern than necessary.

Both Osha and Sansa seemed slightly uncomfortable with one another. While Jon relaxed right away, Sansa was nervous, this was the first time she'd ever interacted with a Wildling. She'd always been taught to fear them, and nervously watched Osha out of the corner of her eye.

"Oi." Osha sighed, leaning forward, once she'd had enough of it. "Listen, darling, I've been with your brothers for years, and haven't laid a hand on em, and only served to protect them."

Sansa blinked, taken aback.

"So if you could please stop sitting like I'm about to take a bite out of you, or something."

Sansa looked at Jon nervously, and was irritated to see him smiling, and then breaking into a gentle laugh. She gave him a look, and he held up his hands in defense.

"She does have a point, Sansa." he said. "You are being a bit stiff."

Sansa snuggled next to Rickon with a sigh.

"I'm sorry." she said, looking at Osha. "I'm still quite nervous these days."

"Can't say I blame you." Osha said, looking deep into the fire.

Soon, Sansa and Rickon fell asleep, one of Rickon's hands firmly resting on the muzzle of Shaggydog, who slept nearby. Jon offered Osha a sip from his flask, but she declined.

"Try and keep sharp as possible with him 'round." she said, nodding at Rickon. Jon grinned, and watched her earnestly.

"Thank you." he said, meeting her eyes. "For staying with him. You never had to."

She looked embarrassed, and picked at the ration of dried mule deer he'd given her.

Sooner, rather than later, Osha fell asleep, on the other side of the fire to Shaggydog. Then, listening to the quiet snoring of the beast beside him, Jon curled next to Ghost, and slipped out of consciousness.

Hours later, the group awoke to voices. Clumps of snow fell from the ceiling of the cave to the floor, as horse hooves pounded atop the cave above them with a thundering surprise.

"Last riders said it was this direction they were travelling in." a voice said from above, muffled slightly from the snow. "But we would have caught up by now, surely."

"I knew I didn't trust that ratty little man." a second voice replied. "We should go back and run him through with a spear."

Jon and Sansa exchanged horrified looks, realizing this could be the end of them all. They all crouched together, listening, and waiting.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa was panicking. She was sitting straight up, her back against the wall of the cave, hyperventilating. Flashes of her life, prisoner in Winterfell, were barraging her, aggressively. She was going back, she was going to be dragged back there, and it would only be worse, now. Now he'd have Rickon and Jon to hold over her head. She thought of all the horrible things Ramsay could do with them, involve them.

Her vision was getting fuzzy, from the lack of air. Jon realized what was happening, and crawled over to her, taking her shoulder, forcing her to look at him.

He inhaled slowly, his eyes locked on hers, urging her to do the same. He pressed his hand on her chest, and took another theatrical breath. She swallowed, and then nodded, taking a gasping breath and forcing herself to gather. Once he was satisfied, Jon sat beside her, closer, and continued to listen to the men outside.

They were watering the horses now, just outside the mouth of the cave. The subject of the conversation had changed from their hunt, to the weather, and now they were insulting one another, laughing.

"I'm telling you, when we finally catch up to that wildling bitch, I'll have to hold you back. You won't be able to resist her smell!" one jeered at the other.

Jon and Sansa's heads snapped towards Osha. Her eyes widened, as she realized what they'd meant. Rickon looked up at his siblings, and reached for Sansa's hand, squeezing it.

"Oi, is that a horse down there?" one man said, and Sansa felt her stomach drop. There hadn't been any room in the cave, realistically, for the horse, so Jon had found a spot down the creek a ways that was out of the wind, secluded in a small stone formation. The packs were in the cave with them, but the horse still screamed an indication that someone was camping, nearby.

"Aye, looks like it."

Jon let his head fall back, against the smooth cave wall, as he desperately tried to come to a solution.

The men's voices had gotten further away, as they went to investigate the riderless horse.

"You've been followed?" He demanded of Osha.

"I thought maybe we'd lost them." she said quickly. "I haven't caught sight of 'em since Horn Hollow, about a week ago. They're from Karhold."

"They're Karstarks?"

"If it's the same men, probably." she said. "Someone in the nearby village must have seen Shaggydog, thought it was worth mentioning."

"Speaking of being worth mentioning, you didn't think this was of any importance?" Sansa hissed.

"Forgive me, m'lady." Osha said, sarcasm heavy in her voice. Sansa narrowed her eyes, and Jon held up his hand.

"This arguing will get us nowhere." he said quickly, his voice in a hushed whisper. "I'll need to go speak to them myself, but..." he crossed the small cave, to where the packs laid. He pulled out the bow and quiver he'd brought with, and mainly been using to hunt for small game. "Can you cover me?" he asked, handing it to Osha. She took it, and then looked at Rickon.

"He's a better shot than I am, m'lord." she said. "Most of the time, he's the one in charge of huntin'."

"He's barely twelve." Jon hissed, urgently now.

Rickon stood, and snatched the arrow from Jon's hand. He looked up at his brother carefully, waiting.

"I'd do it." he said softly. "If I had to, Jon. Don't worry."

Jon made a noise of protest, mostly to himself, and then handed over the quiver as well.

"Stay out of sight, you hear me?" Jon said, and Rickon nodded. Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but then let it snap close. Jon bent, reaching for a rope of dead animals, squirrels and rabbits, and tossed it over his shoulder.

Ghost stood to follow Jon, but Jon held his hand up, bidding him stay. He walked out of the cave, and into the glare of the early morning. The snow was crunching beneath his feet, but he was relieved to see all signs of tracks from the night before heavily frosted over.

He walked down the length of the creek, his heart pounding in his chest.

Rickon had followed him out a moment later, and easily began to scale a heavily pined tree nearby. The years of running had turned the young boy from a pampered lord of Winterfell, into a semi-wildling. His hands found the holds with ease, and he ignored the cold of the snow lining the branches. He scaled up the near 18 meter tree, stopping near the middle, with a good view of the horse and Karstark men in the distance. He used a branch for stabilizing, and then took aim, waiting, with slow and even breath.

Jon approached the men, who'd seen him coming and hadn't moved.

"Morning." he said, his voice light and jovial.

"Is this your horse, here?" the first man asked. Jon, who'd approached the horse and began settling it, gave him a look.

"Aye." he said.

"And you kill't all those rabbits with your sword there, did you?" the second man asked.

"Snares. Set them up last night, slept, and here we are." he shook the rope covered in game at the men. "They're a bit cold, now, but they'll cook up just fine."

The men exchanged looks, and seemed to relax.

"Why are two Karstark men so far from Karhold, if you don't mind me asking?" he said, casually, as he made a point to begin starting a fire.

"You know our sigil?" one asked, again, his voice suspicious.

"Well I'm from Breakstone Hill, it'd be stupid of me not to know the sigils of the houses of the north, wouldn't it?"

"You don't look like a northerner." one said, eyeing Jon.

"You're not quite fat enough." the other said, laughing. Jon grinned. "We're looking for a pair of fugitives." he continued. "They're a woman, and a younger boy."

Jon felt a small piece of relief, knowing Ramsay's men hadn't trailed them this far, at least.

He turned, bending, and just as he did, they caught sight of the sword on his hip.

"What's your trade?" one asked.

"I'm a smith." Jon said, noting their eyes on the helm of his blade. This seemed like the only option for him to have a sword like that.

"A smith in Breakstone?" one said. "You know, Edwin, he knows the smith there, had his sword done by him. Can't recall his name though."

Jon swallowed.

"Did recall him saying he was old, though. Took him weeks to finish a job that should have taken him a few days." The other said. Jon watched as both of their hands quietly went to their hilts.

"Probably my uncle." Jon said, smoothly.

"Oh?" one said.

"Why is the smith from Breakstone, camping alone, a weeks ride away from his home."

Jon unsheathed the sword faster than the other two, and with a quick turn, had run his sword through the thigh of the one closest to him. The man cried out, falling from his horse.

His partner seemed much more calm, and he drew his sword as he gracefully dismounted the horse.

"That stance sure isn't one of a smith's." he said, nodding at Jon's feet.

"Sorry to disappoint." Jon said through gritted teeth. He swung, but the man stepped back lightly, avoiding the sword with ease. Then, their swords met.

Sansa ran to the mouth of the cave, as soon as she heard the clinging of metal. She watched from the mouth, with squinted eyes, as Jon parried against the man on the horse. Jon was a deft fighter, moving with grace but also strength, and unfortunately, so was the Karstark soldier. It had been a while since Jon had fought with a man his equal in skill, and it was more frustrating than anything. He wanted this over with, done, and now he had to make an effort to complete it.

Then, through his chest, an arrow caught the man. Right through the armor plate, in a small area of vulnerability. Jon looked up, as the man fell, and saw Rickon in the tree, looking down at them. He nodded at his little brother, and then finished the man off, quickly and quietly.

As soon as both soldiers were handled, Jon waved Rickon down.

Rickon ran to him, and Jon clapped him on the back, bending down, mussing his hair.

"You did brilliantly." Jon said softly. "You really saved me."

"You were getting tired." Rickon said, a glimmer of mischief in his eye. Jon was truck immediately with deja vu, as Robb used to tease him with that exact line whenever Jon was bested during sword lessons. He thought for a moment that it had been Robb, there, behind Rickon's eyes, laughing with them.

Sansa came bounding to them, through the snow. She reached for Jon first, inspecting him for any bodily injury.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice slightly hysterical.

"I'm better than most." Jon replied, taking her hand, squeezing it before letting it fall. "I've seen much worse."

Sansa turned to Rickon, kissing his cheeks and mussing his hair.

Osha stomped through the snow, holding the other pack from the horse on her shoulder. She set the belongings on the ground, only grabbing her own satchels.

"We have to go, now." she said flatly, and Jon nodded.

"She's right." he said, ushering Sansa to begin packing the horses. Osha crossed to one of the fallen men's horses, calming it gently with her hand on it's muzzle. "They'll be after them by tonight, and when they find them, they can track our trail."

"We're getting more south." Osha said plainly, as she checked the men's bodies for supplies. "The less snow, the less cover."

Jon nodded, and turned to Rickon.

"Can you shoot from a horse?" he asked. Rickon nodded.

"Not as good as still, but yeah."

"Ride with your sister." Jon said. Sansa noticed this, the intentional seperation Jon put between her and him. She was not 'our' sister, but just Rickon's. She gave Jon a look.

"I can't swing as well with you riding aside me." he said, explaining. "I could easily hurt you. With a bow, there's less need for movement."

Sansa nodded, and turned, to find the small sack of her belongings. The fur boots had been discarded, in trade for a new pair, a real pair, from a town a few days back. But she carried these in a satchel, along with her own rations, knife, and a clean dress and smallclothes.

* * *

The group soon, after a quick moment to break their fast, was back on the road. They headed for the main road, as quickly and as directly as they could. As soon as they got to a place with more traffic, their scent could be heavily covered up, or disguised.

The three wolves ran beside them, which made the entire party look that much more intimidating. They tore through the trees, at a great speed, and usually with great noise around them. The yelping of the wolves, chasing eachother in play, announcing their territory. Then the pounding of hooves, and the occasional shout of information to one another on horseback.

They made camp after hours of tenuous riding. Against a cliff, a hike up, so they had a good point of view for any incoming attacks. It was another cave, but this one much more open.

"This must be like how the children of the forest feel." Rickon said, delighted as they reached the cave as the sun was dipping down over the horizon. The forest was a field of frost, crisscrossed with wisps of mist, flocks of birds erupting from the trees. The sunset cast a brilliant haze of orange and red, and the smell of cooking food, fresh icefish and young elk, reminded them all of home. The feeling of home, maybe, of temporary safety, of being around family, of cooking food and sharing in the pleasantness of the evening.

Sansa joked back and fourth, lighthearted now, with Rickon. They played at sword fighting, her with her dagger, him with his bow. They giggled as they parried, making dramatic foot movements in copy of Jon's. Osha spun the meat over a fire with one hand, and tended to the small iron pan Jon had, sizzling with fish. Jon sat against a wall of the cliff, reading over the map with the disappearing light.

He paused after a while, to watch Sansa and Rickon at their game. Rickon's curls danced in the wind, and Sansa's straight dark locks caught the red of the sunset, and she looked like herself again.

He finally stood, abandoning the map, and walked over to them.

"Do you really want to know how to do it?" he asked, reaching for the knife. "You both have terrible form."

He crossed to Rickon, adjusting his stance just slightly. Then he raised his arm up, having Rickon do the same. With his second hand, he held the knife.

"Knives aren't like swords, you have to remember you only have this to protect you, no room for a shield." he smacked Rickon's forearm. Rickon nodded, looking serious now, listening patiently. "You have to remember how close you get to your opponent with a knife, people forget sometimes. Even just the contact can throw someone off."

He turned, taking Sansa in his arms, pinning her to his chest. He handed her the knife, but she could only hold it against her thigh, she couldn't wield it.

For a moment she struggled, and then suddenly felt trapped.

"Jon, let go." she whispered, urgently, and he released her. She stepped away, looking at him carefully, calculating the situation, taking deep breaths.

"You alright?" he asked, watching her.

She nodded, and then stepped forward.

"Show me." she insisted.

"Alright, turn round."

He locked her into his arms again, her back pressed against his chest plate.

"You don't have any way of using this, unless you create space in between us." he explained. "Use your elbow, of your other arm, to push against me, and then turn, pressing the knife against my belly."

"Like, turn round, into your arms still?"

"Yes." he said.

She tried, flexing her arm against him with all her might. She bent her elbow, and created a tiny little space between them. But this loosened the grip, and the more she pressed her elbow, the further away he got.

She turned, using her other hand to press the knife against the flatness of his stomach. He took a sudden breath in, surprised to actually feel the blade on him. She realized what she'd done, and then they both stepped away.

"Like that, yes, good." Jon said, suddenly feeling out of breath.

Sansa, nonplussed, handed Rickon the knife. Shaking himself out of the moment, Jon hurried to show Rickon the same movement.

They all ate around the fire together, as the night sky got scattered with stars. The wind hardly blew where they were, and around the fire, they felt warmer than they had in months.

* * *

Sansa was knotted in the furs, caused by the tossing and turning of her slumber, tangled up. She slept near the back of the cave, with everyone else. Jon was by her side this night, and she was grateful for his protective warmth.

She awoke from a nightmare with a gasp, she thought had been quiet enough not to wake anyone. As she tried to catch her breath, and think of something else, the flashes kept coming. Ramsay's face, his hands, the feel of him on her skin. Like she could feel the burning of every individual tooth mark on the bites of her thighs.

She felt a hand touch her shoulder, and she jumped, startled again. Then, realizing it was Jon, she rolled over, so they were face to face.

"You were talking in your sleep." he said softly. "I wish I could do something to help you."

She shook her head.

"I'm fine. It just needs time."

"That may be the only thing we have left." he sighed.

"Where are we going to go, Jon?" she asked. "We're running, yes, we know from what. But where?"

"We could go somewhere warm." he said, with a smile, locking eyes with her. "Somewhere very warm, on the water, have a house. Pretend nothing here happened. Forget everything."

"Eat oysters everyday? Have a garden, with fountains?" she said, smiling now too. "Listen to exotic music and drink sun-warmed wine, and forget our northern blood. Melt the ice in our veins, for good."

He shut his eyes, humming at the thought.

They laid there, staring at the darkness above them. Silently, Jon slipped his hand around hers. After a moment, she snuggled closer, and moved her head, so it rested on his arm.

"That's where we're going, right?" she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"We can go wherever. If you fancy sun and sand, so it shall be done."

She felt a shiver go down her spine, and she burrowed under the covers a bit more. She closed her eyes, trying to relax. After a moment, Jon let his eyes close as well, focusing on the warmth and weight of Sansa by his side.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa had grown accustomed to living on the road. She felt like a proper northern woman, her hair thick and tangled, usually in a haphazard braid. She wondered, somehow, if she would always prefer this. Or if the ways of the court, if things hadn't been horrible, chaotic, and cruel, would be the life she would rather have.

But the wild game, the smell of the forest, the unpredictable weather, the fact that she didn't need to pretend, stand up straight, share gossip with the ladies of the court, or even do her hair. Riding had become easy, once her legs got accustomed to it. She was gaining wait, probably from the majority of their food being wild game, shot or snared along the forest path. Whatever fruits and vegetables they came by, were usually in town, and usually steeped heavily in pickle, stew, or smoked beyond recognition.

They needed somewhere to go. They were past the point of being followed, for that, they thought they were sure. Nearly a solid fortnight had passed since they'd run into the Karstarks, and their path had been so random, back and fourth, and without much of a general direction, Jon thought they'd finally had some comfort in not being caught, at least not for a while.

They stayed in an Inn, one night, after Sansa had had her way with making Osha and Rickon a little less wildling. They all sat at a heavy table, Jon the only one with ale in front of him, in the Inn's bar. The ruckus in the room was almost comforting, as if it had been any quieter, someone could have easily overheard. Instead, they could talk freely, disguised by the jovial chatter of the townsfolk.

"I know what you're going to say." Sansa said, looking across at Jon. "But I'm telling you, it may be our only option."

"It is not our _only_ option." Jon hissed. Osha and Rickon exchanged looks, knowing the argument that was coming.

"As much as I'd like to settle down into some country house with you all, sit by the hearth at night, tend the farm during the day, it's not realistic." Sansa continued. "We have to get our home back, somehow. There's a war coming, Jon. And we have a trueborn-" she began, but snapped her mouth shut. He gave her a dark look.

"He sold you to him, Sansa." he said, low. "We can't turn up at his doorstep, asking for help."

"He will get his, sometime." she assured him.

"How well do you think I'd do, having to be cordial with him?" Jon asked. He leaned forward, speaking softly enough so only Sansa could hear. "After what he's done to you? I saw you, Sansa."

She narrowed her eyes.

"The fact that it is _me_ suggesting it, then, should only speak to my desperation." she said.

"Aren't you also wanted by House Lannister?" he asked. "Don't you think they'd pay handsomely to have you delivered back into King's Landing?"

She sighed, frustrated. She reached across the table, for his ale, and took a swig, before pounding it back down, and sliding it to his waiting hands.

"Better?" he asked, and she nodded. She looked over to Osha, her eyebrows up.

"What do you think?"

"I think that a castle sounds like a fine place to end up." she said simply, reaching for a piece of cheese off the plate in front of them. "Having one as a place to stay while we plan to take back the other one?" she said, and then sighed. "It must be strange to be a lord and lady. Such big things to do, all the time."

"You'd prefer returning to beyond the wall?" Sansa asked, her voice icy. Osha gave her a look, which was only echoed by Jon.

She huffed, and stood.

"I'm going to bed." she said haughtily, before turning away and disappearing up the stairs. Jon shrugged, and finished the ale. Rickon playing lazily with a pair of dice on the table, not paying them much attention as he rolled them, over and over. The wolves were hiding in the forest, to be called when they returned to the road in the morning.

"Are you hanging in, Rickon?" Jon asked. "You've been quiet almost all day."

"I'm fine." Rickon sighed. "I'm tired. And I do think going home would be nice. Or just...going somewhere, safe. I know Winterfell won't ever be the same, no without Mother or Father, or Robb...or..." he trailed off, thinking. "but it's the closest thing we'll ever have, I think. I dunno. I'm not saying I'll be upset if we don't go back. But I wouldn't mind if we did."

Jon nodded, considering this. He looked at Osha, waiting. Osha pointed at Rickon.

"I'm on his side." she said. Rickon grinned, slightly cheekily. Jon ruffled his hair, and stood, to follow Sansa upstairs.

She stood at the window, looking at the scene below. He began speaking, apologizing, maybe, but when she didn't move, or respond, he joined her at the window.

Below them was a good dozen Bolton bannermen.

Jon felt his heart rate increase suddenly, and he reached for Sansa, protectively. He began planning, racing the ideas around in his head. Perhaps they weren't still searching, perhaps they were just passing through.

He turned, forcing Sansa to turn with him, facing him. Her eyes were shut, her breath coming out in little gasps.

"Sansa, it's alright, you're here, with me. Remember?" he offered, shaking her gently. She reached for his forearms, squeezing them.

For a moment he wanted to stop, just then, in that moment, and live there, for a long time. Relish her hands on his arms, relish the blue of her eyes. Relish the way the torches were being reflected off the window, darting up into the dimness of the room.

Then he pulled her, across the room, back towards the hall. On the way out, he bent, scooping up a pair of the packs. He looked up and around, and then spotted the door he was looking for. Barely visible, the attic door was heavily disguised within the thick grain of the wood. He pulled himself up, using a railing as a foot hold, and yanked the door open.

He reached for Sansa, who was busy staring down the steps, listening to the heavy bootfalls and chaos of the search downstairs.

"Sansa!" he called, trying to wake her from her fear. Finally, she looked up at him. He reached for her, helping her up into the attic, and then following her, before shutting the door behind them.

Moments later, the guards had approached the level at where they'd just been standing. Jon didn't stop, and continued to pull Sansa with him, in a half crouch, running towards the dim window on the far side of the immense attic. It was the only chance they had.

Jon reached the window first, and, using the helm of his sword, shattered the grimy glass. He looked down, to the side of the building. There was a sizeable snowbank, below, they could fall into, and then just get to the horses. Hide in the forest, wait for Rickon and Osha to catch up. It all fell into place.

"We have to jump." he said.

She nodded, looking at him with wide eyes.

"I'll go first, so I can steady you when you jump down, alright?"

"Alright." she whispered.

Jon squeezed through the small window, and then jumped, falling a couple stories before hitting the plush of the snow bank. He rolled, as he meant to, and then slid a bit, before slowing. He stood, looking to Sansa in the window.

She's froze. She was gripping the sides of the window roughly, staring at Jon in the snow.

"Sansa, come on." he shouted, panic rising in his own chest now.

Finally, behind her, the attic door burst open. Sansa jumped so violently from being startled, she stumbled, tripped, and fell out of the window.

Jon tried to grab for her, stepping beneath her. He broke her fall, but she landed on him at such an angle, he was sure she'd cracked a rib.

"I'm sorry." she said, gathering herself, helping him dust the snow off his front.

He gritted his teeth, taking her arm, pushing away the thought of pain now blossoming in his chest.

They rushed through the snow, towards the horses, and hastily untied two. Jon barely had time to toss the packs across the horses mount before he had to jump on, and kick off. Sansa was right beside him, and they were racing towards the trees. She glanced over her shoulder, and watched as the bannermen found their horses, shouting at one another, barking orders and plans in the chaos.

They broke through the trees, and since the horses were used to the usual amount of running through unpathed forest, they hardly broke stride. They easily crashed through the thick snow, thicker underbrush, and constant maneuvering between trees.

They pushed the horses deeper into the forest, and the sound of them behind them began to fade. Sansa glanced behind her again, to see that they were making progress, creating distance, that it would be okay.

Osha, back at the bar, had the sense to calmly and quietly leave, once the majority of the soldiers returned to horseback and began chasing Jon and Sansa. She knew where Jon's next stop was, after this, and hoped this was still where he was going.

He'd left them the single, final horse, and their packs were still upstairs.

"We're going to follow them?" Rickon asked, as he mounted the horse behind her.

"Sort of." she sighed. "If we can manage to keep up."

They headed into the forest, a slightly different trail. Within minutes, Rickon heard a quiet howling, and suddenly, Shaggydog broke through the trees, meeting them by their side, yapping happily.

"I think we found our map back to your brother." Osha commented.

Jon and Sansa broke into a clearing, now, miles away from the Inn, and Jon slowed, happy for the light of the moon reaching the ground. They'd seemingly put a good distance between themselves and the bannermen. He was breathing heavily, and crossed to Sansa, to assure she was okay.

She was holding the reins so tight her fingers had gone numb and tingly. Her body ached again, the healing wounds, most quite old, sore from the sudden stress and excitement. She stared at Jon, unsure of what to say. She reached for his hand, to squeeze it, looking at him in the light of the moon.

"I'm sorry." she finally said, and he shook his head.

"Don't be." he said, and then whistled, long and high, circling the small clearing of trees, looking into the blackness.

After a minute, Ghost appeared in the trees, and plodded over to Jon, nuzzling his hand. Nymeria lingered near the treeline, watching this cautiously.

Sansa stared in wonder as Jon casually scratched the ears of a beast so large, so intimidating. Legends would be written about him, she was sure.

"If we keep riding until dawn, we should be able to get enough distance."

"What about Rickon and Osha?" Sansa demanded. "We _need_ them."

"Osha knew we were going to Emeril Hollow next, she can meet us there."

She looked dubious about this.

"If we do meet them, I must insist we go to the Vale, Jon." Sansa said flatly. He shut his eyes, trying to let his frustration air out. "We can't keep on like this forever."

"Why not?" He asked.

"Because we owe it to them." Sansa said. "To father, to Catelyn, to Robb. To Bran, and Arya, wherever they are. They should have a home to come back to, Jon. Rickon is a trueborn son of Eddard Stark, he's our only hope of a legitimate claim, at this point. The Arryn's have men. The Wildlings, you saved, they would help too."

He put a hand on the tenderness on his chest, trying to soothe his pain in some small way, trying desperately to fill his lungs with air. He thought of Sansa's words, and every other word she'd said in favor of this plan.

"I don't want to see him, Sansa." he said. "I want to see him dead."

She thought about this, and moved the horse forward, closer to Jon. He saw a dangerous, vengeful sparkle in her eye.

"You will." she said. "I do too, Jon."

He looked up, surprised at this.

"He's the second on my list, after Ramsay. But we _need_ him, Jon. When we don't anymore, I'll give you the honor." she said, her voice thin.

"Really?" he asked. "That's been your plan?"

"I didn't want you to think less of me." she explained.

"Why would I do that?"

She shrugged. "It's not very ladylike to plan other people's deaths, don't you think?"

"I don't care if it's ladylike, or not, Sansa." he said. "Really, you should have told me. That would have changed my mind a lot faster."

She sighed. "We can't undo it now."

Suddenly, there were shouts in the distance. The search party had gained on them.

Without another word to one another, Sansa and Jon both kicked off, heading into the trees at breakneck speed. They ran for about another mile, until they were stopped again, in another clearing. As they broke through into this clearing, they both halted the horses. Blocking their path were 3 Bolton bannermen, all aiming their arrows at the pair.

The direwolves joined them a moment later, and lunged towards the men on horseback. The horses startled, jumping back, and one man fell from his horse. Jon used this moment of chaos to jump off his own horse, brandishing his sword.

"Jon!" Sansa screamed. "Don't! They will kill you." she said, her voice breaking.

Ghost had quickly killed the man who'd fallen from the horse, and was now turning to the other two. With a yelp, an arrow made contact with Ghost's shoulder. Jon let his sword fall to his thigh, defeated. He called Ghost to him, and held his neck as he pulled the arrow from his shoulder. Ghost growled, but Jon pushed him away.

"Run, go." Jon said. "They might take me, but they will kill you." he whispered. He shoved Ghost away. With a final snarl at the other two Bolton men, Ghost turned, and fled into the trees.

"Put your sword down." the Bolton soldier said, and Jon did, dropping it. Sansa climbed off her horse, waiting for the inevitable.

"You surrender?" the other soldier asked.

"Only if you take the both of us." Jon said. "Alive, and together. Otherwise I call my wolf back here, and pick up my sword. We might not be able to fight off the rest of your men, but you two will die."

The men exchanged glances, and then nodded.

"Fine." the first sighed, and hopped off his horse, walking to Jon with a rope to bind his hands. "Lord Bolton requested you both alive anyhow."

Sansa had tears in her eyes, but she kept her chin steady as they bound her hands with heavy rope.

"He's just a few towns over." the second said, as he tied Jon and Sansa together, and then onto one horse, which he secured to his own. "He'll be delighted to be reunited with his bride, and you." he looked at Jon, a wicked grin on his face. "He has such plans for you, Lord Commander Snow."

The first ordered them not to speak, not to one another, or any Bolton men. The rest of the bannermen appeared minutes later, and seemed all delighted that their victims had been captured. Sansa could not speak to Jon, but she was beside him, and tried to remember each second that passed, pressed against him. The feeling of familiarity, and safety, that was now, very quickly, slipping away.

He wished as much as she he could make this go away again, make it better. He had failed, completely, and been a fool not to listen to her. When no guards were paying attention, he'd whisper small reassurances, but they were as empty and disbelieving as he felt.


	6. Chapter 6

The road seemed miserable now. Sansa was hungry, sore, and terrified. Jon was mostly angry, which distracted him from the rest of his senses. The whole time they road, he thought of every horrible thing he could do to each of the men escorting them, if he only had his sword. He began planning brutal things, and lingering on them, like they gave him comfort. He only stopped when he thought of Ramsay, and how Ramsay must do the same thing.

Sansa had become a shell of herself. Her eyes were dull, her skin turned grey, and she hardly had the motivation to sit upright on the horse. She was going back, going back to him. She'd never been more sure she wanted to kill herself until now. She was simply numb. If they'd killed Jon before, she would probably be dead already. But he was the only thing keeping her alive. He was a small minuscule ray of hope. As soon as they were reunited with Ramsay though, Jon would be dead too. That would be it. Her life would end.

She was surprised to see Jon not falter even in the slightest. His eyes still had their sparkle, his jaw still held it's steady clench. He was not one to give up, she realized, and he would probably die with the fire alight in his belly.

"Did it hurt?" she finally whispered to him, after hours of silence, as they were led down another winding forest trail.

"Did what hurt?"

"When you died." she said plainly.

"Are you planning on dying, Sansa Stark?" he asked. "I'm not planning on letting you."

"I have to." she whispered back. "If he puts a baby in me, it's over, our house is finished. I'll die before I see that happen."

His heart sunk.

"Sansa-" he began.

"You'll die too." she whispered, her voice now bordering on hysteria. "He'll kill you and he'll make me watch, Jon. That's what he does."

"Sansa." he said, trying to steady her. She was sitting in front of him, but his bound hands prevented him from doing much in the way of physical comfort. "Do you remember what I taught you?"

"What?" she asked, distracted by the question.

"There's a knife still on me. If I can get it to you, Sansa, and Ramsay takes you...you could-"

"Jon, he's smart. He'll make sure to search me first, why do you think he kept me bound up?"

He paused.

"Don't give up, Sansa." he said. "Don't. Not yet. It's not over yet."

"It may as well be." she said, her voice dark and thick with grief.

* * *

Osha knew how to track. There was a reason she had kept Rickon safe from pursuers so long, because she knew what they looked for. She knew what not to do.

So she followed the search party, and then kept following them, once they'd captured Jon and Sansa. She wasn't stupid, she kept a large distance, but they weren't making an effort to hide.

She wasn't sure what to do. Neither was Rickon. They were both at a loss. But she wasn't going to give up. It would be just as easy to take him back into the forest, and continue life on the run. She needed Jon and Sansa though, well, Rickon did, and she needed Rickon.

The party was heading somewhere, somewhere that wasn't Winterfell. Perhaps, wherever Lord Bolton was.

Soon, she realized she wasn't the only person tracking the party. She kept crossing the same path, two horses, a small campsite, shiftily covered up. The other pursuants were just as bad at covering their tracks than the search party. Or maybe, maybe neither were trying.

Ghost and Nymeria found their own way back to Shaggydog, and this small pack of immense beasts certainly made her sleep better at night.

She finally caught a glimpse, for a moment, of the other pursuants. They must have only found Jon and Sansa since they'd been captured, within a couple days. The back of a blonde knight, heavily suited in armor, astride a horse, and another smaller figure, donned in red, with an embellishment on the back of his vest in gold.

"Oi, who's that house that is all blonde? The one's your family doesn't like much?"

"Er, the Lannisters?" Rickon asked. He swiveled around, his brow bunched together. "Why?"

"Is there any reason a huge Lannister bloke would be following your sister and brother?"

Rickon looked around the trees, for some source of the reason she was asking such sudden questions. She pointed, to the spot, where she'd just seen the armored figure disappear.

"I don't see anything." he said.

"I have better eyes than you." she said, plainly. He sighed.

"No, there's no reason any big Lannister bloke would be following Jon or Sansa. Well, maybe Sansa, but not an actual Lannister, maybe just a swordsmen."

"He did look like a knight." Osha affirmed.

"Well, the Boltons and Lannisters are allies, now, I guess." he said. "So I don't know why he'd avoid the Bolton Bannersmen."

"What are allies?"

"Like, friends, that, er, big houses have. Like they work together, sometimes. And will go to war with the other house. Like all the northern houses used to be allies to House Stark, see?"

"Oh." Osha said, understanding. "Well, the second one had a gold and red thing on."

"There's lots of houses that have gold and red."

"The knight was blonde!" she insisted.

"Well, how about, we go and ask?" Rickon said. "It's just two men, we have a whole extra direwolf than they do."

"Ask?" Osha demanded.

"Yes. Maybe they're trying to help."

"Oh my sweet summer child." Osha sighed, urging the horse on further. "You're so very young."

"No, it's a good idea!" Rickon insisted. "There are still friends of the North, friends of the Starks. Sansa told me so."

"Sansa was being held prisoner-"

"No, there were ladies in the house, and men too, who told her, in secret, see." he explained. "Someone was even sneaking her moontea, so she couldn't have any babies with Ramsay."

Osha considered this.

"The wolves need to stay hidden, unless we need them." Osha said.

"They listen to me, they'll do what I say." Rickon assured her. She sighed, disbelieving. "C'mon, we should hurry, and try and catch up with them."

"Fine." she said. "But if this gets me killed, I will come back as a whitewalker and kill you myself, little lord."

He giggled.

* * *

They were a mere two days away from the camp Ramsay was stationed at. He'd been making small stops to nearby houses, to do his various threatening act, insist that anyone and everyone give them any information on the status of Sansa.

Jon and Sansa had barely eaten for nearly a week. The small amounts of food they'd been given had been rotten or nearly so. Sansa, who was smaller, fell weaker faster, but Jon could sense his coordination getting poorer, his muscles crying out for sustenance, growing smaller for every day he didn't eat.

Jon had given Sansa the dagger, and she kept it tightly bound around her thigh. She was only permitted not to have bind around her wrists when she used the restroom, and this was the only privacy she was allotted. She used a strip of fabric, hastily torn from the bottom of her dress, to tie it around her thigh. The cold metal, pressing against her skin, had reignited her determination. If Jon would go down fighting, so must she.

They planned at night, in whispers, bound to a tree or rock, while the other soldiers slept. Sansa was sure Ramsay would christen Jon into his warped little world in a similar fashion to Theon. He'd make him watch. He'd make Jon watch as he hurt her, in every way, until he got tired of that. Then he'd hurt Jon too.

Finally, the day came.

They approached the camp, which had been built around the small townsquare of Everton. Ramsay popped out of the Inn as soon as he heard the approaching horses, a wide grin on his face.

He walked over, doing a happy little jaunt as he did, to the horse where Sansa and Jon sat.

"My darling wife!" he cried, a glimmer in his eyes. Sansa didn't respond. "And her charming brother. Jon, I always had such a soft spot for you, mate. From one bastard to another, really, you were my favorite sibling."

He reached up, and pulled Jon's arm, off the horse, and onto the cobblestones. The men around him laughed. With nothing to break his fall, Jon landed on his shoulder. His cracked rib screamed out in protest, and he groaned. Then, Ramsay pulled him up, pressing him against the flank of the horse, and Sansa's calf.

"She has such a pretty little cunt, doesn't she? I'm sure you had your fun with it as well."

Without thinking, Jon headbutted him, as hard as he could. Ramsay stumbled back, putting his hand over his eye. He swore, and the delight that had lit his face up a moment ago, dissipated.

"Jon-" Sansa said desperately, but it was too late. Ramsay had pulled out a dagger, and had it pressed to Jon's throat. "Ramsay, please." Sansa begged him, and he looked up. Jon had broken the skin, above his brow, and Ramsay had blood trickling down his eye and cheek now. He grinned, wildly, up at her.

"You care for him?" he asked, stepping back. "He didn't just snatch you up, to have his way with you?"

"He was trying to help." Sansa sobbed. "He's my brother."

Ramsay rolled his eyes.

"She told me what you did to her." Jon said through gritted teeth.

"She didn't tell you how much she likes it?" Ramsay asked, his smile widening. "Gods, after the time I've spent with her, she's usually begging for it."

Sansa closed her eyes, swallowing the lie. Jon knew it was a lie too, he had to.

Ramsay reached for Sansa now, pulling her off the horse, steadying her as she stood there, waiting. He pressed his hand against her cheek, and set a hand on his chest, sighing.

"And I thought I couldn't like your hair anymore than I already did." he whispered.

He pulled Sansa towards the Inn, and called for Jon to be led in as well. This gave Sansa a small sense of relief. Any chance of Jon being killed before Ramsay had her way with her would have made the whole plan pointless. But anxiety built in her chest as she stepped towards the inn. The shame of it all, of what she would have to do, in order for him to let his guard down enough. She had to resist, Ramsay loved the theatrics. The louder she was, the worse it hurt, the quicker it was over, and he was bored with her again for a time.

"Have him secured, there." Ramsay ordered, nodding at a chair near the wall as he walked through the door of the bedroom at the back of the Inn. A guard quickly tied Jon's arms to the chair, and then left them alone.

Ramsay pushed Sansa to the bed, and using his knife, cut her arms free of being bound.

Ramsay turned, to Jon, and began a monologue. As he did, Sansa used the opportunity to free the knife, and stash it underneath the bed. She sat back up, and returned to laying on the bed like a limp doll.

"Are you looking forward to this, crow?" Ramsay asked, pressing the knife coyly against Jon's cheek. Jon didn't reply, only looked back up at him, waiting. His jaw tight, his eyes burning holes through Ramsay's.

Sansa's hands gripped the quilt. She shut her eyes, trying to take deep, even breaths. Trying to remember that this would all be over soon.

Finally, Ramsay turned to her.

"Undress." he said simply, leaning against the wall of the room. Sansa gave Jon a nervous look, and Jon shut his eyes, assuring her he'd allow her whatever modesty he could. Her chin trembled, and she reached for the back of her dress, untying it slowly. "Faster than that. You know it's been so long, Sansa, I'm eager, come on."

She followed his orders, and rushed to undress as fast as she could. She let the dress fall to the floor, and stood there, waiting. Ramsay circled around her, observing.

"You healed up well." he said. "What a shame, your body was looking so pretty with my marks all over it."

Jon swallowed, staring at the floor, trying to force his ears not to work anymore. He heard Sansa scream, and his stomach soured. He felt bile in his throat.

"Bastard!" Ramsay said, holding Sansa by her throat, but looking pointedly at Jon. Jon looked up, waiting.

"Everytime you look away, I hurt her that much more." Ramsay said. "And it's rude, to look away, you understand? I'm putting on a show, here. Well, we are, right, my dear wife?" he shook Sansa's neck sharply, and then released her. She gasped for air, putting her hands on her throat, feeling for damage. Then, hoping to guide him back to the bed, so she could have a better vantage point to reach the knife, Sansa returned to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. Ramsay turned, watching her. He looked puzzled by this.

"Teach her some manners when you were with her, eh?" Ramsay chuckled lightly. "Or have you gone and done something stupid, like make a plan?"

Sansa looked up, tears in her eyes.

"You're mad." she whispered, her voice shaking.

"Aye!" Ramsay agreed. "So, what is the plan? Do you have some sort of weapon hidden within your pretty little cunt?"

"Yes." she hissed sarcastically. "How did you guess?"

He landed a slap across her face, so hard it made her see spots.

"Where did those manners go?" he asked. "Well, fine." he sighed. "Act like a bitch, you'll get treated like one."

Sansa sat straight up, shaking her head in terror. Genuine, real terror, Jon saw it on her face.

Ramsay went to a drawer, and pulled out a leather collar with a leash. He pulled Sansa towards him with her hair, and wrapped the collar around her neck, and then tied it to the head of the bed. She was on her knees, leaning forward.

"Do you know how I train my dogs, Jon Snow?" Ramsay asked thoughtfully. "Shame, you can't meet them, they're at Winterfell. But no matter. Do you know how I train my dogs, Jon Snow?"

Jon didn't reply.

"Well, the correct answer was _punishment._ " he continued. "I heard once, that beasts like dogs often respond better to punishment than reward. This theory offered me the most loyal pack of dogs any hunter could ask for. However, it wasn't always that way. It took a long, long time." he smoothed his hand over Sansa's back, and she squirmed trying to avoid his touch. "Which is maybe why it's taken so long with this one."

She couldn't get to the knife now. She was going to have to endure this, as was Jon, until he let her free of the collar. Who knew how long that was going to be? She gasped for air, tears flowing down her cheeks now.

Ramsay found a riding crop, on a dresser, and without missing a beat, sent it sailing down against the small of Sansa's back. Sansa cried out, burying her face into the pillows with a sob.

Jon began pulling at his restraints, with every ounce of strength he had left. The cries of Sansa were too much to bear, he had to do something, _he had to intervene._

He breathed calmly, focusing on his hands, trying to center his strength there. As he pulled against the rope, he heard some tendrils severing. There were more smacks, and then more screaming. With every scream, he felt himself growing stronger, and blinked, seeing the forest around him, not the room. And then blinked again, and everything came back into focus. He could feel growling in his chest, but the noise wasn't escaping him. Something was happening.

The ropes broke, all three layers of them. He let his hands flex a moment, returning the blood to them.

He stood slowly. Neither Sansa nor Ramsay had noticed he was free. Ramsay was completely focused on her then, and Sansa's eyes were screwed shut.

Jon took a sidestep, to the door, locking it.

He wished, for a moment, he had kept the knife. And then, he realized, no knife was needed. He had everything he needed in his hands.

He stepped forward, and grabbed Ramsay from behind. He spun him, and landed a full punch across his cheek, and then again, just as quick, with his elbow. And again, and again, not letting his collar go. Ramsay fell unconscious, and Jon let him drop.

"You have to keep screaming." he whispered to Sansa urgently. "Or they might think something happened to him."

Sansa nodded, but was so utterly relieved, the screaming she began felt more like a release than a chore.

In between her screaming, she took a breath.

"The knife is underneath the bed." she whispered. He nodded, and fell to the ground. He pulled it out from under the bed, and cut the leash holding Sansa to the bed. She was crying, choking back tears, dissolving into hysteria.

He handed her the knife.

"You can do it." he said. "As much as I'd like to."

She shook her head, and instead stood, shakily, for her dress. She set the knife on the bed, and pulled it back over her head. She pressed her hands against her face, taking a breath, and then let out another theatrical scream.

Jon reached for her, realizing she needed more than what he was giving her. For the past week, he'd been so close to her, and not able to comfort her, or hold her and reassure her, he finally could.

She was trembling like a leaf, from the hunger, the terror, and the pure exhaustion.

Suddenly, from below, there was shouts of the men. Jon rushed to the window, looking down.

From the forest, a knight with blonde hair rode, his immense sword drawn. Behind him, another man on a horse, with his sword. And then, he realized, his wolf. And another, and another. He swore, loudly, victoriously.

"Someone's here." he said to Sansa.

"What?" she hiccuped, looking up. She crawled across the bed, and he helped her up, showing her, out the window. She choked out a little laugh of relief.

Below, Brienne rode forward, taking down two soldiers with a single swing of her sword. Osha was the last to ride from the forest, behind the wolves. Rickon was hidden, in a tree, up high, where nobody could catch sight of him, armed with an arrow.

Jon watched for a moment, as the knight took down a good seven guards in the span of half of minute, the other fellow killing just one. Osha was there too, he realized. She'd climbed from the horse, working better on foot, and moved quickly from man to man, armed with just a dagger.

"I have to help them." he said, realizing. He made for the door, speaking over his shoulder as he rushed. "Tie him to something, we'll deal with him last, in case he wakes up."

Sansa nodded, and scrambled towards the unconscious Ramsay. She spotted the collar, still intact, and smiled, just barely.


	7. Chapter 7

Brienne struck down man after man. She was at least twice the size of most of them. The ones she missed, either Podrick or Osha finished off. The one's who ran, Rickon easily pierced them through with an arrow.

There was only 30 men stationed with Ramsay, and even though it was four-to-thirty, the wolves certainly helped.

Jon raced down the stairs, searching desperatley for a weapon aside from the dagger he'd taken from Ramsay. Then he saw his sword, hanging above the hearth. He was surprised one of the men hadn't claimed it for themselves yet. He crossed the empty inn, and grabbed it. His hand meeting the familiar shape of the helm brought him a security he'd missed. He unsheathed it, dropped the leather sheath, and headed outside, to the noise of the fighting.

Jon usually did not find much joy in killing men, even if he was supposed to, in battle. He did it, and he did it well, but this was the first time he found himself enjoying it. Relishing the screams of the men, the men who heard Sansa's cries and did nothing to intervene. They were as guilty as Ramsay, and they would die like Ramsay.

 _"Behind you!"_ A female voice called at him, not Osha's, but slightly deeper. He whirled around, plunging his sword through the belly of a Bolton bannerman.

He looked around for the source of the noise, and then was surprised to see the knight he thought was male was instead a vast, huge, woman. Who was better at swordsmanship than he. He turned, blocking the blow of another sword, and parrying with this man for a moment before besting him and slicing his throat.

The fight took mere minutes. Against the force of two knights, a vicious wildling, and three direwolves, the Boltons were bested before long.

Sansa watched with a vicious satisfaction, looking down at the fight as it happened. She recognized the knight that Jon hadn't, Brienne of Tarth, and she was one of the best fighters Sansa had ever seen. She ended the Bolton man as simply as if she was cutting down trees.

And Jon, Jon too, was magnificent to watch. She wondered, dully, if he had been a trueborn son of Ned Stark, what would have come of him? Would he be a jousting knight, fawned over by the ladies of Kings Landing?

The last man alive was finished off by Ghost, who atop him, tore his throat open. All three wolves had blood soaked muzzles, as did the three fighters.

Sansa, assured Ramsay was secure, hurried downstairs.

She ran out to Jon, throwing her arms around his neck, not caring about the blood. Victory, they shared it together. She held him tightly, and she felt his body relax, and sink into hers for a quiet, blissful moment. She nearly forgot about the others, but then she forced herself to pull away.

She looked up at Brienne, who stood, breathing heavy, her sword limp in her hand.

"Brienne of Tarth." Sansa said, her voice still shaky when she spoke, from the adrenaline still rushing through her veins. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am I didn't take your offer of aid earlier."

Brienne dropped to one knee, bowing her head.

"There is no need for apologies m'lady. The offer still stands."

Sansa took a breath, feeling tears arise in her eyes.

She looked over at Jon, slightly uncomfortable.

"I don't remember how we do this." she said in a whisper. He grinned, and using the snow to quickly clean his sword, he handed it over to her. She lifted it, and then, shocked by the weight her underfed arms couldn't withstand, she set it on the ground.

"Good lady Brienne, I hope you'll forgive my lack of propreity. But I do, take thee, in the name of House Stark, as my sworn sword."

Brienne grinned, and felt pride welling in her chest. Sansa turned back to Jon, holding the sword out.

"Oh, did you want me to kneel as well?" he asked, and she laughed.

Rickon had crawled from the tree, and was now racing across the snowy plain towards his sister. He nearly tackled her, and she gathered him in her arms, kissing his face and neck and hair.

"Father would be so proud of you." she whispered, taking his face in her hands. "How brave you are."

"You too." he said earnestly, dimpling up at him.

Sansa looked at Osha, finally.

"You came back for us." she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You kept him safe."

Osha just nodded, looking bashfully at her feet.

"Where is Ramsay?" Brienne asked. "How did you get free of him?"

"He's upstairs." Sansa said, remembering. She looked at Jon, meaningfully.

"Give us a minute." he said to the others, before reaching for Sansa's hand, and pulling her inside.

"Do you want me to do this?" he asked softly.

"No." she said. "But I don't want to do it alone."

"What's your plan?"

She looked past him, her eyes narrowing.

"Hurt him." she said softly. "Hurt him like he hurt me. Some fraction of it."

Her eyes filled with tears, but Jon brushed them away, giving her a reassuring gentle smile.

"I'd be happy to do it for you, y'know. If it's too much." he said. "I'd give him everything he deserves, Sansa."

"No, I need this." she said. "I need to see him die."

He pushed her hair away from her face. He saw a darkness within her, for just a moment, a raw sort of strength. The kind of strength that led him to breaking his binds. He knew it had been there, but it was the first time he'd seen it manifest since the first night on the run. She stared at him, her dark hair a mess around her face, her eyes rimmed with red, her porcelain cheeks glowing red in anger. She was fearsome, the same fire he had in his own belly.

He ducked out again, and Sansa went upstairs.

"We have to take care of something." he said to the four, waiting, standing around the pile of bodies. "And then, then we should probably leave."

"After we kill 30 Northern soldiers, and then the Warden of the North?" Osha snapped. "Yeah, yes, leaving might be our best option."

He stepped forward, speaking to Osha.

"Give her some time." he said. "She needs it."

"I'll happily help, if she'd like." she said, a wry smile on her lips. The way she hung her head, teasing, confident, and with that grin, it was like Ygriette was speaking through her. Jon felt a shiver go down his spine, and then without another word, walked back inside to join Sansa.

* * *

"We should tie him to the bed." Sansa suggested, as they stood in the doorway of the room, looking down at Ramsay, unconcious on the floor still.

Jon stepped forward, and lifted Ramsay's limp body onto the bed. Sansa had already put the collar around his neck, but Jon made no comment.

She stepped forward, taking the length of rope, and cutting into pieces. She tied his hands to the head of the bed, and his ankles to base. Like he used to. She held the dagger loosely in her hand, walking around the bed, thinking. She was shaking, she didn't know if it was anticipation, eagerness, or still the adrenaline from the attack.

She looked at his face, tears of rage sprouting in her eyes.

"How do we wake him up?" she asked, through gritted teeth. Jon left the room for a long moment, and then returned, holding a bucket of snow. Following him was Ghost, who planted himself in the doorway like a sentry.

Sansa took it from him, and dumped it over Ramsay's head, soaking him. He cried out in surprise, and Sansa jumped back. She wasn't sure, suddenly, that waking him had been a good idea. Now he could look at her again.

Jon leaned against the wall in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest.

Ramsay tried to move his arms, and when he saw his restraints, he grinned. He looked up at Sansa, who stood beside him.

"Hello, wife." he said. "Did you kill all the men on your own?"

"He helped." Sansa said, pointing to Jon.

"And you! How did you manage to free yourself?"

"Don't worry about him." Sansa said, reaching for Ramsay's face and pulling it back towards her. "He's just here to watch. I know you like him to watch, don't you?"

Jon could never have imagined such icy words coming from Sansa. Though he'd mostly seen the scared, gentle, and resilient Sansa, this was a new side to her. He was surprised how much he was enjoying it.

"I thought plenty about how you were going to die." Sansa sighed, resting on the bed, talking casually. Gone was the shaking in her voice. "I puzzled over it, I fantasized about it. I imagined everyone I knew driving a sword through your belly. Even my family, dead and gone, I wished for Robb to come back for me, or my father, and kill you. I wished to die myself, I'll admit that."

She leaned forward.

"Your maester snuck me moontea, darling. I'd never mother a child for you. I had at least 2 pregnancies, and I killed them both, Lord Bolton."

At this, he looked genuinely surprised.

Jon said nothing, but was also taken aback, slightly.

"One day, I will have beautiful healthy babies, who will take the name of a good, strong, highborn lord, not some bastard, and you will rot in the ground, your name dead."

Jon felt his stomach sink. He wasn't sure why, he was used to the way bastards seemed to other people. Sansa had clearly forgotten he was in the room.

She leaned forward, analyzing his face. Ramsay watched her. It seemed so uncharacteristic, for him to sit in stony silence. Perhaps he'd finally given up.

He met her eyes, and then she felt the familiar chill go down her spine.

She lifted the blade, hovering it over his right eye.

"I don't want you to look at me." she whispered. She pressed the blade in, and he screamed.

The blood startled her, the scream startled her. She jumped up, away. She stared at him, breathing heavily, as he cried in agony, the blood streaming down his face and into his mouth.

"I can't do this." she said, softly, mostly to Jon.

"Good." he said. "That means you're nothing like him." he stepped forward, taking the knife from her.

She nodded, and felt a strange sense of relief.

"Just finish it." she whispered.

"He deserves much worse than that." he said. "You weren't wrong there."

She shut her eyes.

"But I do your bidding, m'lady." he said, and she blinked at him. "And if you want me to put it to rest, so I shall."

She stepped to the side, and Jon walked to the bed. He bent over Ramsay, frowning, and then leaned down, close to his face, to speak directly into his ear.

"I just want you to know I want to do much more than this." he said, his voice low. "I'd like to kill you a dozen different ways, the slowest and most painful ways a man can die, and each time you come back, I'll kill you another way."

With a sudden movement, he plunged the knife between Ramsay's legs. Ramsay only managed a squeak, the pain was too great to even utter a sound. Then, Jon twisted the knife, and gave it a slow count, before pulling the knife out again. Then, Jon pressed the blade against Ramsay's throat.

"Any last words?" he asked. As soon as Ramsay opened his mouth, Jon pulled the blade across. Sansa watched as he killed him, and waited until Ramsay was completely still.

Jon turned round to her after a moment.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"It's over." she said, softly, her voice slightly disbelieving. "I'll be alright."

"'course you will." he said, and took her hand, leading her out of the room.

* * *

"How hard do you think it'll be to rally The North, now?" Rickon asked lightly. The small band of travelers had left, and made camp miles away. They sat around a glowing fire, in the natural curve of a mountain, shielded somewhat from the wind.

Jon sighed.

"I'm not so sure they'll like the fact that we killed him with no trial."

"They don't need a trial." Sansa said. "They've suffered plenty. And once we tell them that Rickon is alive and well, it'll make the reclaimation that much easier. Not to mention...I think it may have been like cutting the head off a snake. His men might even go peacefully. They're about as loyal to Ramsay as dogs...but what do you do when your master is dead? Will they still fight for an extinct house?"

"We should go to the Manderlays. And the Glovers. Perhaps even Mormont, though I know it's a small house. But where are we now?" Jon looked down at the map, angling it so it caught the light of the fire. "We're close to them, yes."

Sansa was staring at Podrick, a little funnily. She watched him across the fire, trying to place why he looked so familiar. She remembered seeing him before, with Brienne, and she'd had the same feelings then as well.

"M'lady?" he finally said, questioningly, as he caught her staring.

Suddenly it struck her, and she stood, in surprise.

"You're...you're Tyrion's-" she sputtered. Jon looked up at her, as did everyone else, at this sudden outburst.

"Lord Tyrion?" Brienne asked. "Aye, Podrick served him before he went missing. I took him with me, because it wasn't _Pod's_ fault Tyrion left, but knowing the Lannister's..." she trailed off. "M'lady I must assure you he has no allegiance to House Lannister. He is simply a squire."

Sansa narrowed her eyes, feeling uneasy.

"Sansa do you plan on ostracizing every person who served Lord Bolton?" Jon asked.

"Of course not." she replied, and then realized his point.

She sat back down.

"You must forgive me." she said to Podrick.

"Nothing to forgive, m'lady." he said humbly, with a small smile.

"Do you know where he went?" Sansa asked, out of pure curiousity. "Did he really kill Jofferey?"

Podrick shook his head.

"No, he didn't. And I don't know where he went. Perhaps somewhere where the wine is better."

Sansa laughed, despite herself, and Podrick grinned wider.

Jon passed a bottle between him and Osha, who let her guard down, as they seemed out of the realm of danger, if just for a moment. Rickon snored, curled up beside Jon in a tumble of furs. The night was alive with the sound of birds, proof that they were far enough south for the forest to thaw in parts.

Even Sansa took a few sips of the pear whiskey, stolen from the bar at the Inn. She barely drunk alcohol, but thought it might be an occasion. The end of an era, perhaps. The liquid burned her from the inside out, but after a few swigs, it got easier to swallow. She relaxed, gradually, leaning heavily on Jon, her eyes growing heavy.

"You know, if I didn't know better." Osha said to Jon softly, leaning across to him, once Sansa had fallen asleep, her head in Jon's lap. "I'd say she fancied you."

"It's good you know better, then." Jon replied, but this struck him as odd.

"I dunno." Osha sighed. "You sure don't act like any brother or sister I know."

"I suppose the circumstances are unique." Jon offered. Osha rolled her eyes, and took another long drink from the bottle.

"That is an understatement, m'lord."


	8. Chapter 8

The group was freshened on both supplies, money, horses, as well as weapons, thanks to the donations from the fallen Bolton men. They headed to White Harbor first, where Lord Manderly would hopefully greet them with open arms. House Manderly was fiercely loyal to House Stark, and despite swearing allegiance to Bolton, Sansa explained this was only after Ramsay had two of his nephews killed.

They rode for a few days, and it was evident that everyone's mood had improved. Sansa and Rickon were laughing again, and usually had to be told by Jon to stop their horseplay.

After a week's ride, they finally crested a hill, and below them the stormy sea appeared. New Castle was spread over the far hillside, around a bay filled with boats. The sky was grey, but there was hardly any snow on the ground, closest to the beach.

Sansa had recently decided Rickon should be outfitted as a proper lord, not as a wildling child. In fact, she wanted to assure everyone looked respectable. She'd traded Jon's black clothing ('You're no longer a crow so you shouldn't dress like one') for a grey and green tunic she embroidered their House Sigil on, brown riding pants, and a brown riding jacket. Rickon wore a heavy fur, and a forest green tunic, also heavily embroidered. Finally, Osha, who basically refused everything, until Sansa found her a pair of fur lined riding pants, and a white fur shawl. ('Less carcass looking, more dignified') She even allowed Sansa to comb her hair and braid it back, but it took a lot of bickering before hand.

Sansa herself wore a deep purple gown, lined and cuffed in black fur. She wore it over riding pants, not wanting to be uncomfortable. Her hair she kept loose, or simply braided. There wasn't much time to fuss with the traditional hairstyles of the north, or even the popular styles of Kings Landing.

They rode down to New Castle, the mist from the sea dampening everyone's clothing.

Once Sansa explained who they were, they were ushered, by guards, into the great hall. The guards began to protest the wolves, but when Ghost let out a low growl, the lead guard silenced the rest, with wide eyes.

"They are quite well trained." Sansa assured them. "I assure you, they won't harm anyone without our direct order."

New Castle was beautiful, Sansa couldn't help but notice, even though they were being quite forcefully escorted. It was white marble, and the halls and floors glowed even in the dim grey light of outside. Manderly was a fan of excess, that was apparent. There were subtle details of expensive finery, gold gilding along the floorboards, the doorknobs were silver, carved into mermen or tridents.

The double doors were swung open, and they marched into the great hall. Lord Manderly, in all his girth, looked pleasantly surprised, and the, confused.

"Lady Bolton?" he asked, squinting at Sansa.

"Lord Bolton is dead." she said, flatly, simply.

Manderly swallowed, but she was sure she saw a glimmer of relief in his eyes.

"What...er...a tragic loss the north faces." he sputtered, but Sansa smiled.

"No loss, Lord Manderly." Sansa said. "This, is my brother Rickon Stark."

Rickon nodded his head politely, but didn't bow. Sansa had been giving him lessons on the intricacies of court. He was never to bow, except to the King or Queen, even in the court of another.

Manderly sputtered again, but delight filled his eyes, and his cheeks burned red. He pushed himself out of the chair where he was sat, and waddled down to the floor.

"Rickon? The youngest, if I'm not mistaken, of Ned and Catelyn."

"Aye." Rickon responded. He intended to sound strong and powerful, like a proper lord, but the voice that came from his chest was still that of a child's.

"Forgive me, m'lady, but we all thought Rickon had died with his brother."

"Brandon?" Sansa asked. "No, neither was killed by Theon Greyjoy, although he was to make sure it looked that way. They both escaped, Bran is still missing."

"I am very sorry to hear that." Manderly said. "But, Lady Bol-"

"Stark is fine, m'lord." Sansa corrected, smoothly and politely. He grinned.

"Lady Stark. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to hear this. House Manderly, as you know, was and _is_ fiercely loyal to the Stark name. In fact, when we thought it had died out, we mourned for you."

Sansa didn't reply, but indicated a small nod.

"We're coming to you because we need your help." Jon said, and Manderly looked over to him, surprised.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid we haven't been introduced."

"This is my brother, Jon Snow. Son of Ned Stark." Rickon said, motioning to Jon. "He is also on my council, commander of my army."

"I know who you are." Manderly said. "You wrote to me, a while ago, asking for men to aide the Watch. Have you ended your watch early, Lord Commander?"

"Be assured that Lord Snow has not broken any vows to the kingdom." Rickon said, slowly, repeating the lines his sister had taught him. "You can trust that he is not abandoning the watch, and his watch ended, by terms of the vow."

Manderly's brow furrowed, for a moment, before it relaxed. He smiled again.

"Why has the proper seat of Winterfell, his brother and sister, and their wolves, come to call on me today?"

"Lord Bolton is dead, and we plan to reclaim Winterfell, in the Stark name." Sansa said. "With their only Lord, no heir, and his father, Roose, dead, we are sure that the taking will be easy, as the men who hold Winterfell now have no house to serve."

"We are calling upon you for arms and men." Rickon said. "If you are as loyal to Stark as you claim, this shouldn't be an issue."

"Of course not." Manderly said. He walked to a shelf, in the corner of the room. He pulled out a ledger, and examined it.

"I currently have near 4,000 men at my service. If I could keep at least 800, to keep, the city doesn't run very smoothly without my guard to establish law and order. The rest, though, are yours to take."

Jon and Sansa exchanged looks, their eyes glimmering with delight. Rickon swelled with pride.

"I'll summon the men in the coming week, they are spread 'round, see. White Harbor is not a small place. But they will march back with you, once they are supplied heavily of course. Lord Snow, I'd be happy to go over the best course of action, as far as travelling goes. I have many a friend in the houses of the north, and they'd be happy to house you, and your army, on your way back home."

"I'd be grateful, indeed, Lord Manderly."

Manderly looked at the group of them, and laughed.

"Bolton dead. A trueborn Stark returning to Winterfell. I can't believe I'd ever see the day. Winterfell has belonged to the Starks since The First Men, and I thought I'd live to see that legacy fall."

Rickon beamed, standing straighter still.

"In the mean time, I am sure you are all weary. You're not my only guests, either, so I'm delighted to have a full and happy house over the next few days. We can go over the details, soon, Lord Stark and Snow can sit down with me and discuss the numbers and logistics, and future partnerships."

"Other guests?" Sansa asked.

"Aye, he's in town now, but Lord Petyr Baelish is visiting, regarding some trade issues."

Sansa gasped, slightly, and then covered it up with a cough. Rickon looked up at her for guidance, but she smiled amiably, a small sign not to give anything away. Jon, who moments ago had the most relief he'd had in years, maybe, a true feeling that things were going to improve...now he was tense, and his hand tightened, unintentionally, around the helm of Longclaw.

* * *

"We should have said something." Jon said as soon as the group was led into a set of rooms to use during their stay. Manderly had ordered a feast to be made, to celebrate the coming victory, to celebrate Rickon, and the unity of the houses. He said he couldn't wait to strategize, that he felt 20 years younger at this chance of reclamation.

"We couldn't afford to, Jon." Sansa said.

Osha passed the arguing couple, Rickon in tow.

"Let's leave the old husband and wife alone, shall we?" she said, and Rickon giggled. Jon and Sansa both turned, glaring.

Sansa looked back at him.

"We can discuss it with him at a more opportune moment."

"Well that moment might be when I drive my sword through Baelish's belly at dinner tonight."

Sansa sighed.

"Jon." she began, speaking slowly. "While I appreciate your...dedication to _my_ honor, any petulance we show, even in the slightest, will come off as...rude."

"Rude?" he sputtered.

"I know you haven't been in court, much-"

" _Court?_ " he said, louder now. "You're right, Sansa. I'm sorry, while you were learning all the delicacies of court while being held prisoner in Kings Landing, I was killing bloody fuckin' wildlings and whitewalkers."

He was shouting now, and Sansa took a step back, surprised.

"I don't know if you've forgotten that this family is as much mine as it is yours." he said. "And I'm not sure I care about court if it means having to exist at peace with people who betrayed your family. To exchange pleasantries with someone who deserves nothing but a slow painful death."

He stepped forward, and she continued to step back. He reached for her, and grabbed her arm, pulling her to him.

"He brought you to him, Sansa." he said, his voice low and dangerous. "He knew full well what Ramsay was capable of. Don't forget that."

She blinked.

"Let go of me." she said after a long pause. He let go of her arm, and without a word, she left, storming from the the room and back into the hall.

"Go with her." he said, nodding at Nymeria, who was curled on the floor beside Ghost, watching the argument. The wolf stood, and quickly plodded out after her master.

* * *

Sansa walked down the long empty hallways until she found a way out of the castle. Perhaps she'd become too accustomed to being outside all the time, because she suddenly felt trapped.

She ended up on a balcony, overlooking the foggy bay. The smell of the ocean instantly calmed her, a sweet salty smell that she'd always loved. Nymeria followed amiably, and settled at Sansa's feet, watching the area around her like a sentry. She considered the words Jon said to her, and was now battling between his opinion, and the way she'd been raised.

Maybe he was right. It wasn't as if the _men_ in court had ever been taught to bite their tongues. Was it wise to make an enemy of Littlefinger, though? Ned had always advised Sansa to fight back, like Arya, that she must learn to be as strong as she was beautiful. Catelyn had been different, though, she kept her enemies close, where she could see them.

Sansa wasn't sure if she should trust herself, or Jon.

Jon, back in the room, sat down on a bench and glared at the wall, thinking deeply.

He shouldn't have raised his voice at her, that was his first regret.

Second, he worried he should just listen to her, sometimes. Because as ridiculous he found her proposition, Sansa was smart. She knew politics better than any of them, she'd lived through the worst kind of them.

Once his anger had bubbled down, he stood, going to find her.

He had a sense Nymeria was outside, so he walked until he found a door leading to a balcony. Sansa leaned against a railing, looking over the city and bay.

She turned towards him.

"You're right." they both sighed, at the same time. Then, smiles formed on their faces. Jon crossed to the railing.

"So we both are right?" he asked. "And how will that play over the next few days?"

She thought for a long time, staring at the stormy sea. Jon looked over at her, admiring her profile for a moment. She really _was_ beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he'd ever met.

"I say we play him from both sides." she suggested. "You the angry knight who will do anything to defend his family, and me the complacent politician who just wants to make nice. You'll scare him, I'll make sure he thinks we're friends. That way, we can use him later, if we need."

She locked eyes with Jon, and she smiled. He looked impressed.

"M'lord, you need to practice hiding your emotions." she said.

"Forgive me." he said. "At the wall the only emotions I experienced was fear and anger. I may have forgotten all the other ones."

"Use them, then." she said, turning to him. She reached for his face, gently pressing the center of his brow. "Furrow this," she said, and then moved her fingertips to his jaw. "Tighten this."

He did as he was told, and she only smiled wider. He relaxed, and allowed himself a small grin. His cheeks burned where her fingers had brushed the skin.

"It makes you look fearsome." she said.

"Fearsome?" he asked. "Do I scare you, as well?"

"Not in the least." she said, laughing lightly. "Even when you're shouting directly at me. It's only when it's directed at my enemies do I know it's true power."

She sighed, turning back to the bay. Then, absentmindedly, she rested her head on his shoulder. He stiffened, surprised. Then he sunk into her, grateful for the contact.

"It won't be too hard of an act." Jon said.

"Oh, I know." she said. "I know more than anyone."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey lovelies! This is probably going to end up being a slow-burn. I'm having TOO much fun with it, and if you're enjoying it, please let me know! Thank you all so much for the support and reads, and reviews! I live for reviews. Seven blessings, and update will be up soon! XXXx Shiloh


	9. Chapter 9

White Castle had a huge dining hall. The windows were all stained glass, and the tables were intricately carved wood from Dorne, heavily polished. The feast was outrageous, two suckling pigs, half a cow, honeyed chickens, trays of fish topped with citrus and herbs, baked fruit pies, potatoes in every shape imaginable, summer greens, garlic-seeped wild mushrooms, and bottles and bottles of alcohol.

"I've invited some of the noblemen from the city to join us, and their families." Manderly said as he walked Jon, Sansa, and Rickon through the hall, before seating them at the head table, above everyone else.

Sansa looked eagerly at a pile of lemon iced cakes near her. They'd been eating game for so long, she was craving fruits and vegetables, proper garden finds.

"Of course, you are welcome to try any of the wonderful meal, but I do insist you taste the fish, at least a nibble. My fishmen always select just the finest specimens for me and my house." Manderly boasted, tapping his stomach.

Sansa smiled, reaching for his hands.

"Thank you." she said earnestly. "Your hospitality goes above and beyond our expectations."

Manderly blushed, waving her off.

"You've been through too much, my child." he replied. "You deserve nothing but the finest feasts, wines, and treatment. I hold your mother close to my heart, and I know she would want nothing but the best for you."

Sansa nodded, thanked him again, and went to the table, taking her seat.

The noblemen and women from White Harbor began trinkling in, and they all whispered, looking at the front table nervously.

"Why do they keep staring at us?" Rickon asked, his mouth filled with food.

"Keep your mouth closed, please." Sansa said softly, and he rolled his eyes. "They're staring because they either know who you are, and they are surprised that you are alive, or they know who Jon is, and are surprised  _he_ is."

Jon's rising from the dead had trickled around The North and once people made the connection that the man travelling with Rickon Stark was the former Lord Commander and had been brought back from the dead, it was clear people knew. Someone told Manderly, as well, perhaps a guard or someone from his council. He had made a joke in passing to Jon, earlier in the day, about it, and now Jon was dreading people speaking to him about it. Out of everything that had happened in his life, that moment was not one he was particularly fond of.

The table at the top of the hall, where they sat, was blissfully filled with people they didn't know. Sansa felt lightheaded, from the warmth of the hall, the glass of wine she'd drank, and the stress of the reunion.

She nibbled at the plate of food; despite being famished, she could hardly bring herself to eat.

On one side of Sansa, Osha and Rickon giggled about some of the guests, quietly, to one another. Like children on a schoolyard. But Jon noticed her face, after turning away from a conversation with a tradesman from Quarth, who had maroon hair and various facial piercings.

He squeezed her knee, under the table, and she jumped, surprised from the contact.

"You'll be alright." he said. "I'm here beside you, remember?"

She gave him a small look of thanks, and then turned back to her food. She took a bite of a raspberry, and then caught sight of him. He'd entered behind a group of people, and had appeared behind them, like a magician behind smoke, suddenly and slightly unwelcome.

After a brief pause, he came towards the table, and Sansa sat up straighter. She nudged Jon, lightly, with her shoulder. Jon, who hadn't taken his hand on her leg, pressed more firmly upon it now.

Littlefinger bowed, a half smile on his face.

"So sorry to hear about the loss of your husband." he said. "I always knew you were a problem solver."

"Lovely to see you again as well, Lord Baelish." Sansa replied coolly, albeit politely. She ignored the jab, knowing he knew what had really happened to Ramsay.

"And a Little Lord Stark, returned to us by the graces of the Gods." He continued, moving to Rickon. "You have your mother's eyes, child."

"Thank you." Rickon said.

"Please know House Arryn serves nobody, now, but House Stark."

"Good." Rickon responded, and Jon fought back a smile.

Finally, Baelish moved to Jon.

"Lord Snow." he began. Jon's jaw hardened, and he looked down at Littlefinger with cold eyes. "Congratulations on being brought back from the dead."

Sansa sighed, audibly.

"Littlefinger." she said, demanding his attention as Jon opened his mouth to respond. "Is there something you need from any of us?"

"I came to offer the Vale's forces of men."

"We have plenty of men." Jon snapped, and Littlefinger looked back at him.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish." Sansa said softly, her voice kind and gentle. "But Jon is right, we have more than enough forces to reclaim our home."

"What of funds? Or council...I was the master of coin-"

"Absolutely not." Jon replied, louder now. His hand, still on Sansa's leg, squeezed it tighter, unintentionally.

Petyr's eyes darkened, slightly, only enough for Sansa to notice. She'd spent enough time with him to know the nuances of his expressions. If there was one thing Sansa excelled at, that she learned again and again, since the days of Joffery, was how to read men's faces.

"Go." Jon said, his voice nearly a growl.

Littlefinger gave a small nod to Sansa, who offered him the hint of an apologetic look, before he returned to the table he was seated at.

Jon stared at him as he left, and his grip got tighter. So tight, Sansa made a noise of protest, and he swore, lifting his hand away.

"I'm so sorry, Sansa, are you alright?" he asked quickly, his face melting into one of concern.

"Don't worry." she said, massaging her thigh. The severity of his voice when speaking to Littlefinger awakened something within Sansa, but she forced it down, trying to think of something else. How had so few words struck so much fear in him? She forgot, sometimes, she supposed, how powerful he really was. "You did well."

"I suppose it's easy to do well when you have such distaste for someone." Jon replied, softly. "Come now, it's over, try and eat.

"It's not over." Sansa said. "It'll be a while yet."

"Sansa?" Rickon asked, and she turned. "Wasn't it uncle Brandon who gave him those scars?"

"Aye." she said. "Wish he'd done more than that."

Rickon smiled, sneakily, and took another bite of toast. "Me too." he agreed.

* * *

 

Sansa didn't eat much more, but instead drank two more glasses of wine. The feast had ended, the tables cleared away, and then there was dancing, music, and gossiping.

Sansa, quite drunk, had wandered away from Jon and Rickon, and was making happy conversation with a couple daughters of the local noblemen. They all had goblets of wine in their hands, and all giggled delightedly at the dancers. For a while, she forgot about her house, her high born status, and she joked and teased with a group of girls, like a normal young woman of 18.

"Lady Sansa, who is that sullen thing you were sat beside at dinner?" a girl called Clara asked, arching a brow. Sansa snorted.

"Jon's not sullen." she insisted.

"He's quite dark and mysterious, isn't he?" the other girl, Wanda, said. Sansa realized that they were both watching Jon, across the hall. He was talking with a group of men, and they were currently admiring Jon's sword.

"He's not!" Sansa said, giggling. "He just acts that way, I suppose, like a mask." she explained. "He's very kind, and brave as well."

Both Clara and Wanda looked intrigued. Clara had curls, dark like Jon's, and one green eye, one grey eye. Clara was the daughter of a shipbuilder in White Harbor, and frequented the court. Wanda had blonde hair, nearly strawlike, but a soft singsong voice that normally charmed anyone she met. She was a niece of Lord Manderly, and had become his ward.

The pair of girls waited for Sansa to continue.

"He came and rescued me." she whispered, theatrically, and then smiled. "Lord Bolton kept me prisoner and he came and got me."

"Aww." Both the girls said in unison. Sansa nodded, enjoying the audience now. She continued on with her dramatic tale, of adventure, and living on the run. Wanda and Clara both seemed distraught about Bolton ('Ghastly man, he was. Good riddance.') Sansa continued drinking the wine, and then when she finished one goblet, excused herself for another.

Smiling at everyone she passed, and in high spirits, Sansa found the table where people helped themselves to the bowls and bottles of liquor. She dipped a ladle into a punch bowl of pretty soft pink liquid swimming with summer fruits. She sloshed a bit on her hand, and then giggled.

She felt a hand on her back.

"I know your brother didn't care for my council." a voice said, and she whirled around, looking at Littlefinger. "But may I offer you a piece of advice, m'lady?"

"What?" she hissed, and then hiccuped.

"Spilling secrets to ladies in the court might not be a good idea." he said. "Anyone might hear what you have to say."

She searched her mind frantically, worried she'd given something away she shouldn't have. When she realized she couldn't think of anything, she laughed a little.

Jon had spotted Littlefinger, who was cornering Sansa against the drink table. He left the group quickly, and pushed through the crowd.

"Jon!" Sansa said, delighted.

He pushed between Sansa and Littlefinger, facing Petyr. Petyr was Jon's height, but Jon seemed bigger, somehow.

"It would be best for you if you didn't speak to Lady Sansa."

"Are you her keeper, now?" Petyr asked. Jon stepped closer to him still, and was about to deliver another threat.

Sansa swallowed her drink in one swoop, and then banged the goblet down on the table. Jon spun, and saw her standing there, swaying slightly. Her cheeks were bright pink.

Ignoring Baelish, he took Sansa's arm, and led her through the crowd.

"Where are we going?" she asked, looking at her new friends, smiling at them as she passed.

He didn't answer, but instead pushed through the heavy wooden doors, and tugged Sansa down the hall.

"Jonnn." she whined. He found a bench, and sat her down on it.

"Shh." he said, pushing her hair away from her face. "Sansa, keep your voice down."

" _Shhh_." she responded, putting a finger on her lips.

"What did he say to you?" he asked. Sansa considered the question, thinking deeply.

"Oh, yes, he said I shouldn't gossip with the ladies at court, so people wouldn't know our secrets, or something."

Jon sighed, slightly impatient, but secretly amused. He'd hardly seen Sansa be anything but a respectable, well-postured lady. Here she was, hiccuping and giggling like any other lush.

She fell back against the wall, and sighed, looking at him with bleary eyes.

"Those ladies were talking about how _handsome_ you are."

"Is that the big secret Petyr was worried about?"

"Nooo." she said, thinking hard again. Why was thinking taking so long? She puzzled over this, and then looked at Jon. "What?" she whispered.

"Sansa, what were you talking about with those ladies?"

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed.

"About how you came for me." she admitted. "About Ramsay."

Panic hit his chest.

"Did you tell them about what I _did_ to Ramsay?" he asked. "Sansa, as much as the north hated him, he was still Warden, it was still a crime."

"Er..." she thought aloud. "No?"

"Why are you unsure?" he asked. "Sansa, look at me. How much did you have to drink?"

She held up 4 fingers. Then, giggling, added her thumb.

"Did you eat anything?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"Probably." she said. "I don't remember."

"No, you hardly touched your food. Alright, come on, I'm taking you back to the chamber."

"No!" she protested. "I was having fun."

"You're on the verge of getting sick, and I doubt any lady of the court would be respectable for getting sick all over the great hall. Perhaps I don't know much of court, but I know that much."

She considered this, and he stood. She held her hand out, and he helped her up. As she stood, she felt the final drink hit her. The walls turned sideways, and she felt a small hint of nausea in her belly.

"Ah." she said softly. "This is what you speak of."

He steadied her, a hand on her waist.

"Were you only drinking wine?"

"No." she said. "The last...was...er...the punch with the fruit in it, I think."

Her speech was getting more slurred. With Jon helping her along, they made it into their chambers within minutes. She pushed away from him, and went to the window, which had a wide window seat. She climbed onto it, and with all her strength, unlocked and then opened the window. Cool, salty air, rushed into the room. She smiled up at the sky, breathing in the air. It sobered her significantly.

Jon was surprised at how quickly she'd moved, and chased after her.

"You will _fall_ out of that window, Lady Stark." he said, reaching for her. She laughed, and stepped back. Her heel missed the bench, and she lost her balance. Jon grabbed her waist again, and then set her down. She turned, and plopped onto the pillows of the window seat, leaning against the wall.

"Join me." she said, waving her hand dramatically at the pillow across from her.

"You _should_ go to bed." he scolded.

"Humor me, then." she said, reaching for his hand. He sighed, and sat across from her. She leaned forward, crossing her legs underneath her, and resting her chin on her palm. "Do you not like me like this?" she asked, worried.

"Like you?" he said, and then frowned. "I like you no matter how you are, Sansa. This is better than scared, though. Or angry."

"I'm not scared." she said, her voice low now. "I feel fearless."

"That would be the wine." he said, and she giggled. He noticed how her nose wrinkled when she laughed, and how she usually put her hand in front of her mouth.

She stared at him, like she was working something out. She was silent for so long, he was worried she'd forgotten he was there.

"What's it like?" she finally asked.

"What's that?"

"To be with someone you love?" she asked, as innocent as she could manage.

The question struck him as sad. Sansa, growing up, was a romantic, and had been obsessed with true love, white knights, rose gardens, and love stories. It was part of the reason they were never close. She'd never gotten her happy ending, the one she'd craved for so long. It had been miserable men, one after the other. Joffery, who toyed with her, killed her father in front of her, and beat her. Tyrion, who had only been arranged with her as a joke, and who'd never touched her but simply scared her, Littlefinger, who manipulated her and sold her, and finally Ramsay. She watched him carefully, with her round blue eyes, waiting for an answer.

"It's nice." he finally answered.

"I'm sorry about what happened to her."

"Me too." he said. "But it was a long while ago, Sansa. I've lived, died, and lived again since. I'm past it."

"Will I get past it too?" she whispered. "Past all of them?"

Before he could answer, she fell back, leaning against the wall again.

"It's not like anybody will have me anyways." she sighed. "I've been married twice, and every man worth marrying just wants someone who has a maidenhood to be broken."

"That is _not_ true." Jon insisted. "And now, you can marry whomever you like. No more political matches for you, Sansa."

She smiled at this, and nodded.

"That did make me feel a bit better." she said. "I forgot."

"That's what I'm here for."

She leaned forward again, and then sighed, squirming.

"This bodice is horridly uncomfortable." she complained. "Can you help me get it off?"

"Er." Jon said, but she'd already stood, and was pulling off the top of her dress. She glanced at him, and gave him a dubious look.

"Jon, I appreciate the respect for my modesty...but do you not remember our reunion? Not like you'd be surprised at anything." she said, and then without another word, turned around, waiting.

He stood, and went to untie the bodice. He saw glimmers of the scars, on her back again, and felt the familiar bubble of rage in his chest. Underneath the scars though, was her porcelain skin, and her spine curved so delicately into the small of her back, and lower still, he thought, yearning for whatever hid below the skirts. Was he yearning for a woman, though, the shape and touch and feel of a woman? Or was it _this_ woman, forbidden to him.

The bodice came undone, and Sansa pulled it off. She tugged the dress back on, sighing. She spun, a wide smile on her face. It faded, slightly, when she saw how distraught Jon looked.

"What is it?" she asked. She reached for his hands, concern furrowing her brow.

"Nothing." he assured her. "Just...thinking."

"You always get upset when you're reminded of him, don't you?" she asked, remembering the scars on her back. Crosshatched whipping marks.

"Don't you?" he asked.

"Well, sometimes." she admitted. "But then I think of how I'm free from him, free from anyone, really."

He grinned, and tapped her chin playfully.

"That's more like it." he said.

Her eyes went distant for a second, and then she stepped forward. The alcohol was dissipating her normal inhibitions. She was nearly chest to chest with Jon now, looking slightly up at him.

"Would you do me another favor?" she asked, her voice quiet, careful, not wanting to break the moment. As soon as she stepped closer to him, she felt it, like a spark, a warmth, burning inside her.

"I answer to you, don't I?"

She didn't break eye contact with him, not for a moment. Pumping through her blood, the wine had turned her brave, emboldened.

"Will you kiss me? Just once? Like you did her? So I can know what it feels like." she said. "For someone to love you, properly."

"Sansa-" he began to protest, but moving away didn't feel like an option. He was drawn to her, and something spoke to him, an instinct, deep in his belly. Sansa wasn't his sister, she'd never been. It was a reminder, almost. Was this his own subconscious trying to talk him into it, or was this a true instinct?

"Please, Jon." she whispered.

"No." he said, and her face fell. She began to step away, but he reached for her waist. "I'm not going to kiss you like I kissed her, because I don't want to kiss _her._ I want to kiss _you._ "

His hands were on her face then, and he pulled her towards him, kissing her hungrily, urgently. She tasted of sweet wine, with a mellow saltiness. He parted her mouth with his, eagerly, and she allowed him, although the sensations flooding her were new. This was new territory for Sansa, any kisses she'd received had been heartily unwanted, but this one, she wanted terribly. _Oh gods_ she wanted every inch of him, she wanted him to show her everything, to make her feel good and loved and passionate.

Jon's heart pounded so hard in his chest he was sure she could hear it. He was terrified, bloody terrified, because he wanted her so bad, and he shouldn't. But now he had her in his arms, his mouth enveloped hers, and he mentally thought of all of the things hidden beneath her dress. He thought that he alone could be the man to heal her wounds, make her forget everything that had ever happened, to make her feel so wonderful, make her feel like nobody before him even existed.

He shook himself out of it, and then pulled away, and stepped back.

"Oh, _fuck_ , Gods, Sansa, I shouldn't have - I really shouldn't have-" he said. "Fuck, you're drunk, and I shouldn't have done that."

"I'm sorry." she whispered. She felt guilty. She could see the torment she was causing him. It wasn't fair. None of this was. "I know I'm not that good-"

"Sansa!" he said, exasperated. "That's not it, no, you were grea- _no._ " he shut his eyes, and bit hard on his fist, groaning. "That was stupid of me. I need to go."

He began to push past her, but she grabbed him.

"Sansa, you are making this extremely hard for me." he said, trying to speak slowly.

"Tell me, then." she said. "Say it, if it's true. Say you don't want me. Be honest, please, I deserve some honesty."

He looked at her, eyes desperate and pleading.

"Say it." she said.

"I can't." he finally admitted. She let go of him, and he stepped away. "But we also...can't."

She nodded.

He left her, then, alone in the room. She climbed back onto the window seat, tears filling her eyes. She looked down on the bay, and prayed for the same thing she always did: a different life.


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa awoke the next morning with a pounding headache, and the hint of nausea from the night before had blossomed into a crippling storm of coming sickness.

Once she'd emptied her stomach, she stumbled into the bath hall, and began filling the copper tub with warm water.

She undressed and sunk into the silky warm bubbles. She groaned, and put her head back, trying to quell the headache with deep breathing.

Most of the alcohol had left her system, so the headache was beginning to lessen. She knew she'd feel better if she'd eat, but all she had the energy to do now was lay there, and think.

She replayed the events from the night before, over and over. As fuzzy as some moments seemed, the one thing that ran clear in her mind was the kiss with Jon. She didn't feel guilty, not in the least. She hadn't felt she'd done anything wrong, and there was an inkling sense in the back of her mind that no mortal laws had even been broken. She began listing theories, thinking of every possible way that he couldn't be related to her.

She'd heard the story from Catelyn a hundred times in her youth. Ned goes off to war, comes back with baby. It seemed so unlike her father, the whole of it. Even her mother had said that, how surprised she was. Perhaps, maybe, there was another story to Jon's heritage.

_Are you thinking this because you're trying to justify what happened last night, or do you really care?_

Of course she cared, she thought. Feelings of _lust,_ or _love,_ or whatever it was she felt for him, aside, she cared deeply for Jon. He had saved her, and had done so much more. He was a hero to the realm, and he deserved to know the truth, whatever it was.

When she finished her bath, she returned to her room to dress.

Osha sat on the end of the bed, watching her. Sansa jumped.

"Brought you breakfast, m'lady." Osha said, a smile on her face, nervous, as she stood when Sansa walked through the door. "Thought you might need it, see."

"Oh... _oh._ " Sansa shook her head, and then managed a smile in return. "Thank you, I really do."

She went to the table, and took a piece of the sausage off the plate, biting down on it.

"Food is the best way to cure wine sickness." Osha explained.

Sansa took another bite, and then another. The food filled her empty stomach, and with each bite she grew more eager. She sat down at the table, not even bothering to dress, just wearing the silk dressing gown tied around her.

There was another plate of food, and Sansa realized, quite guiltily, Osha was waiting for Sansa to finish before she ate, herself.

"Osha, please, sit. It's perfectly alright." she said through a mouthful of bread. Osha sat across from her, and took small bites of the food.

Sansa got lost in her thoughts again, staring at the window, near the spot where it happened.

"M'lady, are you alright?" Osha finally asked.

Sansa looked at her, as though just remembering she was there.

"I'm fine." Sansa said. "And it's quite alright if you call me Sansa."

"San-sa." Osha tried out, and then grinned. "Well, Sansa, then, did something happen last night?"

"Why?" Sansa asked, and then inadvertently touched her mouth. As though she could be burned there, or something. Osha raised a brow.

"I may be just a wildling, Lady Sansa. But I know a lot about people, just as much as you do. Especially men, and then the effects said men have on women."

Sansa sighed.

"It's nothing." she insisted. "Just some, confusion."

"Aye." Osha said. "Lady Sansa, I'm not so sure it's high on your priority list...but Bran...he has to be out there."

"Bran?" Sansa said, and then remembered. "Of course, Bran, _of course._ He's on our priority list, obviously, if he's not first he's second only to the impending threat of Whitewalkers. If you think there's any chance...any chance at all."

"Sansa...Bran has been communicating with me."

" _What?"_ she hissed. "And you're only just telling me?"

Anger was bubbling in her stomach.

"M'lady, listen to me." Osha said firmly. "He was travelling with his wolf, Hodor, and a brother and sister. Sansa...Bran has abilities. He's a warg, but he also has visions. He's been learning about the past, and the future, and he's been trying to communicate with me, as well. In dreams."

" _Dreams?"_ Sansa asked, narrowing her eyes. Wonderful, now she had to deal with Jon... _and_ the fact that Rickon's nanny was losing it.

"He'll come visit you as well." Osha said, nodding. "I just wanted to tell you first, so you knew it wasn't just a dream."

Sansa took a bite of a small strawberry, and nodded.

"Have you mentioned this to Jon?"

"Don't need to." Osha said, her mouth full of food. "He's been having them too."

Sansa rolled her eyes, and took a final bite of breakfast before standing, and going to the wardrobe.

Osha stood as well, taking her plate with her, realizing she was no longer wanted.

"It's sunny out today, m'lady." she said thoughtfully as she passed Sansa on the way to the door where she and Rickon slept.

Sansa looked at her options. Lord Manderly, the day they arrived, ordered fine clothes to be outfitted in the rooms, and Sansa, she was sure, had received the finest of options. Everything was silk, crushed velvet, or the finest linen. All embroidered with golden or silver thread, intricate designs across the chest or waist, or sleeves. She reached for a dress in a pretty green blue, much like the color of House Manderly's sigil's field.

She tied it on, and sat down to comb out her hair. A lot of the charcoal had faded, now, and her dark golden red was coming through. She patiently combed, parted, and braided her hair, and began making an intricate updo. Her skills of embroidery often transferred to her hair, as she had nimble fingers and the character that allowed her the patience to make mistakes, and simply do them over. And even though she'd sliced off a good length of her hair, she had plenty left.

She finished the winding braids atop the crown of her head, with small curls falling around and framing her face. She'd seen ladies at court wearing similar styles, and knew it was best to adjust to the fashion of court in order to seem more approachable.

She left, leaving to find the library, wanting to talk to Jon terribly. She found out from a steward that he and Rickon were in the council chambers, strategizing with Lord Manderly regarding the march back to Winterfell.

She wandered the empty halls of the castle until she finally came across the library. She satisfied herself by walking up and down the length of shelves, reading the tags of scrolls and binding of books, trying to find some hint of something that could help her. After spending an hour scanning countless birth records, and history of the north, she found a volume titled 'The Great Battles of the North from the First Men to Present Day."

She pulled this off the shelf, and brought it to a table. She flipped through, pausing at pages of stories she'd heard before, battles led by her great great grandfathers or uncles. The Stark house was a strong one, and most battles ended in victory.

She flipped through until the last few pages of the books. Her heart sunk as she read about her grandfather, and then her father and uncle Brandon.

Nearer the last few pages, she came across a battle titled 'The Tower of Joy." Her brow furrowed. She knew the name, but oddly enough couldn't remember the details. Then she saw Lyanna's name, and recalled that was probably why. Ned had hardly spoke of her aunt Lyanna, and the war following her kidnapping was one battle story Sansa never heard.

_At the end of the war, Lord Eddard Stark and six of his companions (Howland Reed, Lord Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and Ser Mark Ryswell) approached the tower. They found it guarded by three members of the Kingsguard (Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower). Eddard and Howland were the only survivors of the resulting battle. Eddard had the tower torn down to build cairns for the eight deceased._

_After the fight, Lyanna Stark was heard screaming from the tower, and then found dying, alone, inside the tower by her brother, Eddard._

This struck Sansa as odd. If she was alone, why was she screaming?

She looked at the dates. She counted on her fingers. Her heart began racing. Had she really solved the mystery of Jon's parentage? She stared at the page again, counted again. It was exact, the day of the battle was near to the day 21 years before Jon's birthday.

She blinked, stunned. She'd only been puzzling about this since this morning, and here she was, the answer in front of her. She felt uneasy, sure there had been another force guiding her to this. Was it Bran, somehow?

 _Now you just sound mad._ she scolded herself. Despite her doubts, she found a strip of linen in a desk, put it in the book, and then reshelved it, promising to bring Jon back later.

* * *

Jon was in a wide courtyard, with a cart of weapons beside him. Rickon knew how to shoot, yes, but had been too young to lift a sword when Jon was still at Winterfell, and following that, hadn't had much of an opportunity.

They'd just finished the meeting with Lord Manderly, and had decided to continue with 2,000 troops onwards to the wall, to reinforce the Watch. Jon was worried this wouldn't be enough, but Manderly insisted the other Northern Houses would follow his example, and could send aid of even more. Some of the left over men that would neither return to White Harbor or The Watch, would instead accompany Jon on a campaign to assure the rest of the northern houses would be just as united as Stark and Manderly were now.

Manderly didn't seem overly concerned about the reuniting of the houses, even if it was just Jon who called upon them. The Legend of Jon Snow had spread all over the north, and even further south. It appeared the rest of the realm didn't share the distaste for Jon the Watch had. Tales of his bravery in the battles he'd fought while Lord Commander, and even before, had spread. He was rumored to be one of the best swordsmen in decades.

And so this swordsman now would show Rickon how to duel properly.

Jon tossed Rickon a wooden blade, and Rickon frowned.

"I don't get to use a real one?" he whined.

"Trust me, once I best you a hundred times, and that wood meets your body a hundred times, you'll be glad it's not real. You'll wish it was made of pillow, actually."

He directed Rickon to stand across from him, and began showing him the very basics of fighting.

Jon could see very quickly, as Rickon practiced, he was naturally gifted, and took after Robb in the way his body moved. Jon became quite pleased, and was grateful the chore was more enjoyable for him than he originally thought.

After a while at this, Sansa found them, and walked across the courtyard.

Jon saw a flash of blue, and then dark red, and glanced up. Distracted from their duel, Rickon swung and smacked Jon across the ear with the wooden sword. Rickon dissolved into a peal of laughter, bending over, as Jon hissed, rubbing his smarting ear.

Sansa herself was trying to fight a grin by the time she approached the pair.

"Are you alright?" she asked Jon.

"You distracted me." he said, and she pinkened slightly.

"Can I borrow you for a few minutes?" she asked. "I need to speak to you about something."

Nerves bundled in Jon's chest, but he nodded, and set his own wooden sword on the cart. He patted Rickon on the back.

"Well done on that hit." he said.

"Thanks." Rickon said, beaming up at him.

Sansa and Jon walked side by side, in silence, back into the castle. She could hardly look at them, but when she did, she couldn't bring herself to stop. So she settled by staring straight ahead, her palms sweaty.

She led him down the long marble hallway, and then into the library.

"What is it?" he asked, looking at her, confused that they had ended up here.

"I found something." she said. She led him down the aisle, and pulled the heavy volume from the shelf again. He looked down at the cover, and then back at her, eyebrows up.

"Err?"

She grinned ruefully, and took it back from him. She led him to the desk, and took a seat. He stood behind her, waiting.

She turned to the page on the Tower of Joy.

He read it quickly, and then waited.

"Sansa, I know you want me to figure this out without help...but what am I looking at?"

She put her finger on the line "Lyanna Stark was heard screaming from the tower, and then found dying, alone, by her brother."

"Why was she screaming if she were alone?" she said.

"Because she was _dying_ maybe?" Jon asked.

"Alright, fair point." Sansa continued. "But look at the date of her death."

"Three days before my birthday?"

"And where did father say you were born?"

"Barrowstone." he replied.

"The Tower was in Dorne." she said. "That's nearly a month's journey away."

"So perhaps he received me when I was a month old?" he offered.

"No." Sansa said. "I remember specifically mother saying you were near 3 months old by the time you arrived. If you were born in Barrowstone, father would have returned with you much earlier."

"Sansa, it's a bit of a stretch."

"It's not." she said. "Lyanna had dark hair, and dark eyes. Father's hair is much lighter, and his eyes were grey."

Jon frowned, but somehow, it _did_ make sense. Something inside him tore, one side, fiercely loyal to Ned, who he had considered his father, and perhaps, he always would. But the other side...the other side that so deeply wanted Sansa, for it to be acceptable would open a whole new realm of possibility for him. Possibilities he never would have dreamed of, a few months before.

He was silent for a long time, and Sansa stood, turned, and leaned against the table.

"I can feel it, Jon." she said softly. "It makes so much sense."

"I don't know, Sansa." he said. "I'm not sure a hunch is enough to...make that real."

"Well." she said, and she tapped the book. Her finger rested just beneath the name _Howland Reed._

"Lord Reed still presides over his house." she said. "It's on the way back to Winterfell. He would be the only person who would know, Jon. And perhaps...perhaps he can confirm the story."

"Fine." he sighed.

"What is it?" she asked. "Have I upset you? I thought you may want to know."

"Of course I want to know." Jon said. "And it truly does make a lot of sense. But I don't...see...why he wouldn't tell Catelyn."

"Do you know who's son you are?" Sansa whispered. "Do you know who Lyanna's lover was? The reason for Robert's Rebellion?"

He squinted, trying to remember. Honestly, the stories of the realm, there were often too many. It had been so long since his days of lessons, he couldn't recall the details. 

"Rhaegar. Targaryen." Sansa finally said, answering her own question. Jon looked up, his eyes widening.

"Robert had them all killed." he said. "If Lyanna had a son with him...and anyone knew...Robert would have killed me too."

Sansa nodded, her eyes lighting up. She could see them pieces aligning in Jon's head, like it had for her just before.

"He was protecting me." Jon said softly. He looked up at Sansa, and smiled widely. "You're brilliant." he said, and she shook her head.

"I just had a feeling, Jon." she said. "It never felt like we were brother and sister, to me, anyways."

He nodded in agreement.

He closed the book, and reshelved it.

"We need to keep this quiet, for now, even if Howland confirms the story." he explained. "If _whoever_ sits on the Iron Throne finds out, they might consider me a threat."

Sansa swallowed, and remembered what Joffery had done to Robert's bastards. She nodded, quickly.

"We can't tell anyone." she agreed.

He turned towards her, thinking.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" he finally forced himself to ask. He'd been wondering, desperately, that she may have assumed she'd dreamt the whole thing.

She nodded, slower now. She tried to read his expression, but couldn't figure it out.

"Have your feelings changed?" she finally whispered. "Do you still...want-"

"No." Jon said. "They haven't changed. And yes. I do still."

She blinked, and then stared down at her feet.

"Do you still feel you can't?" she asked, timidly.

It took him a long time to answer.

"I don't know." he finally sighed.

And then, with that, he left her.


	11. Chapter 11

The rest of the week passed slowly. Sansa had found companionship in Wanda, who was also living in the castle. Wanda was also very satisfied to sit for hours embroidering, and so they did, in a great sitting room. Sansa, when she was stressed, found throwing herself into creating things helped. House Manderly had no shortage of thread.

The forces were being gathered, and it was only a few more days until they were to leave for Winterfell. Since the afternoon in the library, Jon and Sansa hadn't spoken about the encounter since. She wanted to give him time, to think, and to respect the process. But at the same time, Sansa was horribly impatient, and wanted nothing for him to make up his mind already, so she could grieve, or so she could finally unite with him.

Jon was taking so long because he was having trouble accepting the reality of the situation. He also felt as soon as he spoke life to it, to solidify any possible union, would turn him ravenous for her, and give him an insatiable and distracting appetite. At a time, now, that he couldn't afford any distractions.

It was Sansa, though, who finally grew so impatient, she broke the silence between them.

She waited for him, in his bed chamber, one late night. He'd been spending more and more time with the commanding officers of Manderly's forces, and usually ended up in the council chambers late into the evening.

She had a glass of wine to steady her nerves, but just one, not wanting to repeat the night of the feast again. Jon's room had a bigger window, and even a small balcony, overlooking the city. Sansa satisfied herself by staring down, watching the activity of the harbor. Ships came in and out of the bay, aglow with lanterns and reflecting the light of the moon.

Jon walked through the door, and froze, momentarily, at the sight of someone on the balcony. When he realized who it was, he sighed, a breath of relief. He went to the door connecting his room to Rickon's, and locked it. Then, behind him, locked the door to the hall. He wanted a moment of peace, uninterrupted, with Sansa.

He silently crossed over to her, and leaned on the railing just beside her.

"How did you make it past the guards?" he whispered, and she looked over to him, smiling.

"I bribed them heavily." she said.

He grinned, looking down at the harbor.

"Did you get impatient with my indecisiveness?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"We leave in a few days." she said. "I wanted to know if I would be riding beside you, or in a carriage at the back of the convoy."

"Beside me, I'd hope." he said. "No matter what I answer, Sansa. If you wish to ride beside me, I shant stop you."

She sighed sadly, looking down at the city.

"Why are you worried?" she asked. "About _this._ " she motioned to herself, and then him.

"I'm worried you caught feelings because of how close we were. Or because I saved you. I'm worried you see me as a brave hero, or white knight."

"You are a hero." she said, and held her hand up when he began to protest. "But I don't think you are a white knight."

"You should wait until you meet other...bachelors, or men. I'm the only one you've had contact with...in...who knows how long?"

"Nobody else will compare." she said. "Nobody else came for me, Jon."

"Still..." he said. She turned to him, and pushed a curl from his forehead.

"You keep making excuses."

"I don't want to...go too far, too fast." he said. "Sansa, gods, Sansa. You stir something in me that feels like Wildfire. Like I won't be able to put it out once it's ignited."

"You say that as though you want to scare me off." she said, arching a brow.

"It's supposed to." he said. He finally turned to her, still leaning against the railing. "Just...can you just give me a chance to explain myself?"

"That's why I'm here." she replied.

"Alright. So I suspect it's a bit like...you don't eat for a while. Maybe even a couple days. Just on the brink of starving. Then, you're presented a feast. Would you eat slow?"

She considered this.

"I see the point you're trying to make." she said.

She stepped a little closer to him, brushing her hand down his jaw, his neck, and then his chest.

"What if there's someone that keeps giving you little tastes, but you can't let yourself eat a thing?" he asked her, his voice soft.

"Then I think you need to figure out _why._ " she said simply.

"What if you're wrong?" he asked. "What if this whole theory is wrong?"

"I'm not." she said plainly.

"Well in _that_ case." he said, sarcasm heavily tinging his voice.

"You know I'm not either." she said. "You know I'm not wrong. You can feel it."

She wasn't wrong. As soon as she'd explained everything to him, it's as though he'd been delivered a divine truth. A path to follow. Though the disconnection between him and the rest of his siblings stung, it was dawning on him that it's not always blood that makes a brother.

But it's blood that can separate them.

She stepped closer, looking up at him with a smile.

"Sansa-" he breathed. She was mere inches away from his lips now, waiting. The tension between them was palpable.

"You want to wait?" she whispered.

"I don't _want_ to." he said. Gods, she was so close, and literally asking for it. "You don't think we should?"

"I don't think we need to." she said. He could feel her breath on his face, could smell the perfume on her neck. In the moonlight, her skin glowed, and the light shined off her red waves, now back to their usual hue.

"Is that not obvious?" she asked, arching her brow. She slid her hand down his chest, and onto his stomach. She rubbed her thumb there, feeling the tenseness of the muscles.

"Do I make you nervous?" she asked, a small grin on her lips.

"Completely."

"Forgive me, then, m'lord." she said. She tucked a hair behind her ear, waiting for him to say anything else. When he didn't, she leaned into him, and kissed, lightly, the exposed skin of his neck. Then, she moved up to his ear, and whispered. "I'll be waiting for you, eagerly."

He groaned, and she saw his fist tighten around the balcony railing.

She stepped away, finally.

"Goodnight, Jon." she said, softly.

She returned to her chambers, and fell onto the bed, her heart racing, her belly filled with an unusual primal urge. She quickly undressed, and pulled herself under the covers, looking at the moonlight outside the window with unseeing eyes.

Sansa had never thought of anyone in the way she now thought of Jon. Her thoughts were jumbled, tripping over one another in her heated urgency. She pulled her sheer nightgown up, curious as to the sensations she was experiencing. She was shivering, but hot at the same time.

She rolled over, burying her face in a pillow, trying to shake the images out of her head. In her mind, Jon did the same things to her Ramsay did, only with none of the agression, the pain, the anger or hatrid. He was gentle with her, holding her carefully, guiding her through everything. Showing her how things should be done, teaching her properly, covering her skin with kisses.

She found her hand snaking between her legs, feeling her own wetness, rubbing the most sensitive part with a sudden urgency. Before she knew it, she was gasping, her body was releasing pleasure she'd never experienced before. There was something, afterwards, that ached for more, but it was a quieter voice, and she could finally sleep.

* * *

They left New Castle a few days later. Sansa, as promised, rode beside Jon, on a fine grey and white steed Manderly had gifted her.

Manderly had been a flutter of energy before they set off. He'd thanked both Jon, Sansa, and Rickon, a hundred times. He'd thanked the gods, rejoicing in Rickon's return and the return of the True North. He told them to simply send a raven, if they needed anything.

They'd been told Winterfell was still held underneath the Bolton Banners, but the number had dwindled, and now less than a thousand men sat there. Most had returned to their families, and the ones who stayed wreaked havoc on the resources they had left. Supposedly, all the grain from the castle had been sold off, and most of the weapons, fine furniture, and so on. They were sacking the castle, from within it's walls.

The journey ahead of them was a long one. White Harbor was a two week ride from Winterfell, and they had stops along the way.

Sansa rode in between Jon and Rickon, and the three of them led the convoy. They crested the same hill they'd crested the week before, only now, they had an army behind them.

The days passed quickly as they fell into a routine. With each night fall there was another fine house to stay in, another Stark loyalist to sing their praises, present them with fine food, and offer what they could. Apologies were sung in every way, shape, and form. For not assisting them sooner. Sansa and Rickon accepted the apologies as graciously as possible, but Jon typically fell silent.

On the fourth night of travel, there was a knock at the door of Jon's chamber. They were staying in House Dormund, a small but wealthy Vassal house to house Stark.

He opened the door to Sansa, who's eyes were filled with tears.

"The Baratheons no longer hold the Iron Throne." she said, hiccuping. "It is Cersei Lannister who seats it, now."

"Cersei?" he asked. Though he'd only seen her just the once, the stories Sansa had told him, of her cruelty and manipulation, had given him a strong distaste for her. Any enemy of Sansa's was his, now.

She nodded, and pushed past him, into the chamber.

"She's wants me killed." Sansa sputtered. "She still believes I conspired with Tyrion to kill Joffery."

"Take a breath, Sansa." he said, setting her down on the trunk, crouching beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

"She killed _everyone,_ Jon." she cried. "She destroyed the sept... killed the noblewomen and men and anyone who would get in her way. All the Tyrells, oh Gods."

"How did she destroy the sept?"

"Wildfire. Like the battle for Blackwater."

"Surely the people know this." he said, and she shrugged. She tried to catch her breath, but the thought of the senseless death of so many had struck something inside her. More tears sprung from her eyes, and Jon swept them away, then rested his hand on the back of her head, pulling her forward to gently kiss her forehead. When she'd calmed down a moment later, he spoke again.

"Are you worried Cersei will come after you?"

"As soon as she knows where I am. Before, since the Bolton's were allies to the Lannisters, I suppose she thought I couldn't be touched. Now, I've unseated her ally and ruined her ability to control the north. _And_ killed her eldest son."

"You didn't kill him." Jon said.

"I may as well have." she said. "Nothing will change her mind."

"Sansa." he said, and she looked at him. "We are near a month's journey away from Kings Landing. Cersei _just_ landed on the Iron Throne, and you think her first call to action will be to avenge her son's death?"

"You don't know her." Sansa whispered.

"That may be true." He replied. "Listen, think of right now. Tonight. You are here, with me, in a castle with huge stone walls. Outside, 4,000 men lay in wait, to protect their sworn house. I command them. You are safe, here, Sansa."

She considered this, and nodded.

"Do you know where we arrive, in 3 days?"

She mentally tried to calculate where they were. They had just passed Moat Cailin that afternoon, and were still heading west, to cross the kingsroad.

"Greywater Watch." she whispered. House Reed's seat.

"Aye." Jon said softly. "And then it's back to the Kings Road, and North, right to home."

She sighed, hiccuping.

"Stay in here, tonight, with me." he said. "If you need."

She nodded, grateful for him, for his reassurance. Grateful for his belief in her, and grateful that he thought it was him that needed her now, not the other way around.

During the night, Sansa cried, fearful for everything, for the future, for the following days, for the lurking threat of Cersei now hanging over her head. But everytime she broke into a new bout of tears, Jon was there to usher them away, to comfort her, even if he forced himself to keep a distance.

She finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, her head resting on Jon's shoulder.

He knew in the morning she would awake, stronger than ever before. He knew this because that was what Sansa did. She allowed herself to be terrified, to be weak, to be anxious only for a moment, before she shoved it all aside and went forward, full speed, teeth gritted, fire in her eyes.

They had this in common, was his last thought, before sleep finally overtook him as well.


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa awoke, curled around Jon's chest. She sat up, and he did not stir.

The room was smaller than hers, but she didn't mind. It felt cozier.

She was still fully dressed, and she pulled herself out of bed, crossing to light the hearth. There was a dull tapping of rain on the window. Ghost raised his head, watching her, from the floor at the foot of the bed.

Sansa, still half awake, stared at the crackling fire, rubbing her eyes, which still felt tender from crying. She felt ridiculous, now, thinking about how upset she'd been. She felt secure, here. She walked over to the window, looking down at the encampment. She had an _army_ to protect her now, literally. She had direwolves, a trueborn heir to reclaim the throne, and she had Jon. Who, she knew, would risk life and limb before he let anything happen to her.

Sansa moved back to the bed, and sat down on the floor beside Ghost. She ruffled his ears, and he flopped his head into her lap with a sigh. His head was heavier than she expected, but she laughed, lightly. Ghost, laying down, was as tall as she was sitting. Standing, they were both around the same height, Sansa even a little shorter. How intimidating they all must look, with their huge loyal beasts behind them.

She pressed her palm against his neck, and felt the deep and sturdy heartbeat there.

Ghost looked up, with a whine, and then lapped at her face. Sansa groaned, pushing him out of the way just in time, and then giggled.

She realized she was hungry, and stood, seeking out to break her fast. Ghost followed her, quietly, out the door and down the stone hallway. House Dormund held an older castle, and these halls, small, lit with torches - they reminded her of the dungeons of Winterfell.

She asked a steward to point her in the direction of the dining hall, and began her way towards the food. Ghost walked at her hip, and she kept a hand resting on his shoulder, casually, humming as she walked.

Once she'd been served blueberry tarts, fried whitefish, and a heavy mug of tea, she felt completely content, alone at a wide table.

Suddenly, the doors burst open at the end of the hall. An officer, one she'd seen working with Jon many times, came dashing down the hall.

"M'lady, there's someone trying to get into camp, who insists to see you."

She raised her brows.

"Who calls?" she asked, standing.

"She claims to be your sister, m'lady, but none of my men ever saw Lady Arya's face, we cannot confirm if it's her."

Sansa felt the world spin, and then steadied herself.

"Wake my brother, and Jon." she ordered. "Bring her in, immediately."

"She's still in the camp, m'lady."

"Then _bring her inside!_ "

"Right away." he sputtered.

Ghost stood, whining.

Rickon had awoken to heavy scratching on the door. He sat up, quickly, looking around. Nymeria was whining, trying to get out. He groaned, throwing the blankets off him, and walked to let the dog out.

When he opened the door, a guard was standing just behind it, his hand still raised, about to knock. Nymeria near bowled him over, and the guard cried out in surprise.

"What's wrong?" Rickon demanded.

"It's your sister, sire." the guard sputtered.

"Sansa?" he demanded, quickly hurrying to the bed for his gown, pulling it over his nightclothes.

"No, sir, well, she was the one who called for you, but your sister, Arya, may be in the camp."

"Arya?" Rickon squeaked, and then called Shaggydog to his heel, racing from the room. He scrambled to the door beside his, banging on it, calling Jon's name.

Jon burst out a moment later, sword drawn, and Rickon fell back with surprise.

" _What is it?"_ Jon asked.

"Arya!" Rickon said, excitedly, and then reached for Jon's hand, pulling him down the hallway impatiently.

Sansa paced back and fourth in the dining hall, her heart racing. She looked up, when the doors burst open, and ran to Rickon and Jon.

"They say it may be Arya." she said. "But nobody in the camp has ever seen her, so they're bringing her up here." she explained in one breath. She looked down at Jon's sword, and gave him a puzzled look. He shook his head, conveying 'don't ask', and set the sword down on the nearby table. Jon ordered the wolves out of the room, on the other side of the door.

They all waited, mostly silently, as the minutes went by. Then, finally, the door opened.

In walked a girl, with dark hair, brown eyes, but she was a stranger to them all. Sansa's heart sunk.

"Gods." The girl whispered. "It really is you."

Jon opened his mouth, about to ream the girl for lying to the guards, but then she moved, funnily, like she was taking off a mask.

Arya grinned at the three of them, as they stared at her in stunned silence. Then she shrieked, laughed, and ran towards Jon, throwing her arms around his neck.

He lifted her easily, like he had when she was just a girl.

"How'd you learn to do that?" he asked her when she pulled away, but she just giggled. Then, she turned to Sansa.

"I'm so sorry I left you." she said, swallowing. "I left you all alone there."

Sansa stood, her eyes welled with tears. She shook her head, and reached for her sister.

"I don't care." she said, muffled, into Arya's tangled hair. "I don't give a damn, because you're here now, you're alive."

The sisters held eachother for a long moment, Sansa crying with relief, Arya patting her on the back awkwardly.

Then, Arya found Rickon, and twirled him around like Jon had her.

There was a great whining and scratching at the door, at the end of the hall opposite of where Arya had entered. The doors shook.

"Let her in." Sansa said to Jon, an excited grin on her face.

"Who?" Arya asked.

Jon crossed to the door, and opened it. Nymeria burst through, her mouth wide open, panting, ears up, tawny eyes aglow.

Arya made a strange sort of strangled noise, somewhere between a scream and a sob. Arya stepped forward, taking in the mammoth beast she'd turned away so many years ago.

Nymeria bounded over, nearly trampling Arya down, welcoming her in eager face licks, her tail thumping madly. Now, Arya found tears in her own eyes.

"We found her, in the forest, when we were travelling." Jon said. "She may have sensed Ghost, but she came to us."

Arya wrapped her arms around the direwolf's neck, ruffling her fur. Nymeria barked, eagerly, and jumped lightly on her front paws. Then, after a long series of scratching, Nymeria seemed satisfied, and fell to the floor with a quiet humph. Through the door, the other wolves entered, slowly, eyeing the new member to the party cautiously. Arya laughed, shaking her head in disbelief at the three wolves, and her three siblings.

"Is that the same sword I gave you?" Jon asked, pointing to the one at her hip.

"The one and the same." she beamed. "And it's been put to work."

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked, suddenly wary.

"Have you not heard yet?" Arya asked, as she walked over to the table, plucking an apple from a bowl at the center. "I thought a Raven would have made it by now." she commented with a shrug, her mouth full.

"Heard _what_ Arya?" Jon said.

"Walder Frey is dead." Arya said, taking a seat atop the table. m

Sansa and Jon exchanged looks.

"Who's Walder Frey?" Rickon asked.

"The man who murdered mother, and Robb." Arya replied quickly.\

"Oh." Rickon said. "Well, good."

"What of his heirs?" Sansa demanded. Arya laughed again, and took another bite.

"Them too." she said. "All of his sons, at least."

" _How_?" Jon asked. With a wry smile, Arya patted the sword on her hip.

"You're joking." Sansa replied. Jon stared at Arya, his mouth open to speak, but no sound came out. "She's joking." she said to Jon. Arya shook her head.

"I mean, you don't _have_ to believe me." she said. "But I was riding north from the Twins when I saw your bannermen."

"Well done!" Rickon said, with a wide smile.

"You killed _all_ of them?" Jon sputtered. "With no help?"

"I've been busy since you've seen me last, brother." Arya said. "And apparently, so have you. No longer required to wear black for the watch?"

Jon lifted his night shirt, showing the deep wounds, scarred over, all over his stomach.

" _Whoah._ " Arya whispered, and hopped off the table, crossing to him. She inspected them closer. "This didn't kill you?"

"It did." he said.

She looked up, confused.

"A priestess for the Lord Of Light brought me back."

She nodded, understanding immediately.

" _Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death."_ Arya whispered. "Glad you found a loophole." she said with a snort, and Jon laughed as well. "And you're all going back to Winterfell? Who holds it?"

 _"ARYA."_ Sansa demanded, and Arya jumped. She looked at her. "Does anybody _know_ it was you?" she asked. "House Frey is a Lannister vassal, don't you think Cersei will assume it was us? We're so close to the Twins now." she asked to Jon. He nodded, realizing she was right.

"What does the Queen mother matter-"

"Tommen is dead." Sansa said sharply. "Cersei is queen, and once she hears the Frey's are dead-"

"Fuck." Arya said plainly, and Sansa shot her a look. Arya ignored this.

"It could start a war." Sansa said to Jon. Jon crossed to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"We can't change what's been done." he said, softly. She looked at him, her eyes pleading, and he shook his head. Arya watched the scene with a face.

"What's all that about?" she said, nodding at Jon's hand on Sansa's shoulder. Jon snatched it off.

"Nothing." Jon and Sansa said at the same time. Arya looked at Rickon, for help, but he shrugged.

"Alright?" she said. "What of Winterfell?"

"It's held under the Bolton name."

"Roose Bolton?" Arya asked, remembering the name of the man who betrayed her family.

"No, it was his son's." Sansa said. "I was married to him."

" _You married Roose Bolton's son?_ " Arya demanded, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. Sansa could only nod.

"Ramsay." Sansa said. "He's dead now as well. Jon did that." she nodded to Jon.

"So no Bolton holds it, just his soldiers?"

"Aye." Jon confirmed.

"And you got Manderly to give you all those men out there?" Arya asked, remembering the sigils she'd seen.

"To reclaim Winterfell, for house Stark!" Rickon chirped. Arya smiled, wider.

"I'll be glad to join the campaign, then." she said.

* * *

The road seemed easier, with Arya there, to lighten the mood. She made jokes, told them her grand stories of the journey she'd been on. Arya had taken well to Osha, and made her apologies to Brienne, for not giving her a chance to reunite her with her family earlier. They made camp, two days later, nearly to Reed's castle.

Sansa sat on the floor of the tent, on a handsome carpet. She was embroidering, humming to herself. It was the late evening, the camp was alive with the smell of cooking food, drinking soldiers, and the chaos of 4,000 men in a small space.

Ghost slept near her soundly. If Jon was making plans, or with a group of men, Ghost usually took guard with Sansa, and Sansa had become used to his quiet company.

Jon pushed through the tent flap, and she smiled, looking up at him.

"Why are you on the floor?" he asked. She shrugged, bending back over her work.

"Nobody had chairs brought in, and why not? The ground is not uncomfortable." she said.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "I was just about to go find something."

"I already ate." she said, apologetically.

He sat down across from her, calling Ghost to him, scratching the scruff behind his ears. Sansa smiled at the pair, feeling extremely content in the moment.

The flap moved again, and Arya walked through.

"You're both on the floor?" she puzzled, and then, not waiting for an answer, sat beside Jon.

"Have _you_ eaten?" Jon asked, turning to Arya.

"Ages ago." she said, nodding. "What have you been doing?"

"Commanding an army?"

" _Commanding an army."_ Arya said in a singsong voice, and Jon swatted at her.

Sansa laughed, and looked back down at her work. She wore a velvet gown, rust colored, with a low drop neck. Arya noticed a scar, between her breasts, and moved forward.

"Sansa, what's that from?" she asked, pointing.

"Oh." Sansa sat straight up, pulling up the neck of the gown. "It's nothing, it's from ages ago."

"You haven't told her?" Jon asked, and Sansa shot him a look.

"Told me what?" Arya said. "Also will you _please_ both stop that? The whole talking with your eyes when I'm here. It's obnoxious."

"That scar would be courtesy of Ramsay Bolton." Jon said.

 _"Jon."_ Sansa said, her voice sharp. He held his hands up.

"It's not like she would have never found out, or seen them, Sansa."

"What did he do to you?" Arya asked, her voice soft. Sansa didn't answer, instead looked down at her embroidery. When she was silent long enough, Arya looked to Jon for an explanation.

"He did plenty." Jon said, his voice grim.

"Why did you marry him, then?" Arya asked to Sansa.

"It's not as though I had much of a choice." Sansa replied.

"Much of a choice?" Arya continued to press her, not taking the hint Sansa didn't want to speak of it. "You were tied down to say your vows, were you?"

"Arya-" Jon started, but Sansa cut her off.

"It's not like I could run off, like you." Sansa snapped. "Start a career as a killer, dressed as a little boy?"

"Oi, at least I had the brains to escape our captors." Arya said.

" _Arya._ " Jon said, his voice louder.

"Why are you defending her?" she demanded. "Sansa has always been the Lady in Distress."

"At least I didn't abandon my family." Sansa hissed, and Arya glared at her.

"At least it's not _my_ fault father is dead." Arya said, and regretted it immediately. Sansa looked as though she'd just slapped her.

"That is enough." Jon said, standing, pulling Arya up roughly. But Arya was angry, now, and shaking. She shook him off, glaring at him now.

"Where were you, anyways?" she screamed. "This whole time? You could have been there. You were in the North, Robb needed you, you could have _been there_.

"You don't think I tried?" he demanded of her. "You don't think if I had you'd have _two_ dead brothers, not just one?"

She huffed, and changed the subject. "Why are you defending her, anyways? She was being just as awful to me."

She looked down at Sansa, who'd dissolved into tears, and was watching the pair, still on the floor.

"I am not _like you,_ Arya." Sansa hiccuped, and pulled herself up. "I survived as best I could with what I had."

Arya said nothing. Sansa stood there, and wiped her face on her gown. Jon watched the pair, tensely.

"I'm sorry." Arya said. "To you too." she looked at Jon.

Sansa nodded, but Jon said nothing, just stared at her, his brown black eyes, steely.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Arya said, pushing past Jon and out of the tent.

Jon crossed to Sansa, leading her to the bed, sitting beside her.

"She's upset because we've all been together again for so long, and she's still been on her own." Sansa said, trying to reason with the anger behind his eyes. "She didn't mean it."

"Well, she still said it, didn't she?" he said, and she took his hand.

"She's been through plenty, too." she reminded him. "We are all going to lose it, from time to time. We have to remember, even in anger, we still have eachother. All of us."

He sighed, and his shoulders relaxed. He rested his elbows on his knees, letting his face drop into his palms. Sansa stroked his back, wordlessly.

"You alright?" he asked, a few minutes later, once he'd calmed down enough.

"I'm fine." she smiled, nodding. "We're fine."

He leaned into her, kissing her cheek. She touched his face, looking at him pleadingly.

"Stay." she whispered.

"Not yet." he said. "And tomorrow, if we know..." he trailed off, letting Sansa fill the rest of the sentence with whatever she wanted.

"Tomorrow." she repeated.


	13. Chapter 13

The road into the swamps of the neck became hard to ride through, and eventually, Jon had to turn back, to order the majority of the men to wait at the Kingsroad. They proceeded, through the winding path, followed by a guard of 50. The path was only wide enough for a single horse, surrounded on every side by deep bogs.

Ghost followed Jon, who led the group. Then Sansa, Rickon, and Arya, trailed by Brienne and Podrick, and finally, the guards. Even though it was the middle of the day, the thickness of the canopy of trees was enough to shroud them in near darkness.

Greywater Watch moved. Their only hope of contacting Howland wandering the perilous trails of the swamps until he sent his men to contact them.

Jon felt anxious. He felt the whole time like something was watching him, just out of reach. The deeper they trekked, the more nervous he got.

After near 5 hours of wandering, Sansa screamed. Jon whirled around, to see her pointing.

Out of a vast bog, through the mist, the bow of a great ship, black as sin, appeared in silence.

The party was frozen, trapped on the thin path.

A man appeared on the bow of the ship. He had golden red hair, a heavy beard, and was cloaked in layers of deep green.

"Jon Snow." he called. "Sansa, Arya, and Rickon Stark."

The ship neared the shore, slowly, and then bumped against it. The man climbed down, with a rope, and with ease, stepped to the shore.

"You come to council with me?" he asked.

"Are you Howland Reed?" Jon demanded.

"As far as I know, yes." he said, and looked to Sansa. "I was sure I'd seen Catelyn Stark ride upon my swamp, arose from the dead."

"You saw us?" Jon asked.

"Aye, I've been watching for a while, now. Your brother, Bran, warned me of your arrival."

"Bran?" Rickon said, moving his horse forward. "My brother, he's alive?"

"Very much so, Lord Stark. Gods, you look like your father. Come aboard, the lot of you, if you wish to talk. There may not be enough room aboard for all your men, but I feel that with my empty ship, a kingsguard in full swing may not be necessary?"

"You're alone?" Arya asked. "Where's your castle?"

"Hiding." Howland said with a grin. "Even my sworn sword may not know the location."

He banged on figurehead, a lizard, and from it's mouth came a ladder.

Jon and Sansa exchanged wary looks. Jon called to Brienne.

"Order 5 guards to follow us on deck, along with yourself."

Brienne nodded, and turned her horse to fetch the men.

Once the men were gathered, the group went up the shaky ladder, and onto the deck.

"Captains quarters has fallen under disrepair." Howland called, jovially, as he crossed the ship's deck to the quarter deck, and then opened the door to the cabin.

The room held a table, and little else. It may have once been fine, but since, the paint had peeled, and the moisture of the environment had sunk into the wood, and it smelled musty.

They were all seated, the guards surrounding them, with Howland at the head.

"We came to assure your allegiance to House Stark, Lord Reed." Rickon said, loud and clear

"It's yours." he said. "It never stopped being yours. Your father was a dear friend of mine. He'd do anything for my children, and thusly, I will do anything for his. However, there's not much of a house left. Our need for knights is naught, and while I do have claim to land, I am afraid that's all I have to offer. As well as a hiding place, if ever need be."

He said the last part with a low sort of wise omniscience.

They discussed business dealings, and Howland agreed to assure all trade through the swamps be approved by House Stark first. The visit was short, to the point, and before they knew it, they were standing to leave.

Rickon, Arya, and most of the guards returned to the deck, but both Jon and Sansa lingered.

"You're going to ask me of his parentage?" Howland said, crossing his arms, looking at them both. "Of the Tower of Joy?"

"You're the last remaining survivor, Lord Reed." Sansa said. "My father...my father never clarified...about Jon's mother."

Howland grinned, and then his smile faded, slightly. His eyes seemed distant.

"Losing Lyanna Stark was a great tragedy. She was one of the most decent and kind noblewomen you could find."

They waited. Howland was quiet for a moment.

"But she left Ned a gift. I was supposed to go to the grave with the secret, unless, you yourself showed up, Jon. And here you are."

"Lyanna's my mother, then? Was?"

"Aye." Howland said. Sansa felt her heart burst into doubletime, and she shot Jon a look, a look of both haughtiness and delight.

"And my father?"

"Rhaegar. A fearsome specimen. As strong as he was striking. As well as one of the finest swordsmen who've walked this Earth. You take after him, in that aspect, but everything else...Ned may not be your biological father, child, but he raised you. Don't ever forget that."

"Never." Jon said simply.

"Thank you." Sansa said. "You've put peace to it."

Howland shrugged.

"If you ever need to write, send a white raven. Others don't make it through."

The pair returned to the deck, followed by Howland. He waved them farewell, as the climbed off the ship, and back down to the shore.

The ship, seemingly of it's own accord, sunk back into the mist, Howland standing proudly on it's bow.

"Well _what was the point of that?_ " Arya demanded. "Some lonely man with no heirs floating around in the swamp to tell us he can't help much anyways?"

"Howland Reed was one of father's closest friends." Jon said slowly, as he mounted his horse. "It would be an insult to ignore his house."

Arya sighed, but pestered no more.

The party made the trek back, and for another 5 hours, rode tirelessly through the heavy swamps.

Sansa was in front of him now, and Jon was forced to watch her, and only her, and couldn't keep his mind otherwise occupied. Sansa, could very well feel the heat of his eyes on her, but like him, they did everything they could to ignore it.

* * *

The camp was aglow with lanterns and fires as they crested a small hill and came upon it. The party could spread out now, and with a whoop, Arya challenged Rickon to a race, and they launched off, down the hill, towards the camp.

Again, Sansa and Jon lingered behind. He rode up beside her.

"I told you." she said, her voice light and teasing. He grinned, looking at her.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you earlier." he said. "It all seemed...just...too convenient."

"Maybe convenient is how the gods work."

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "That was a near all day ride."

"Better than ever, actually." she sighed. And with that, she urged the horse onwards, to the camp, leaving Jon behind her.

* * *

Sansa ate, bathed as best she could, and retired to her tent. She didn't wonder if Jon would come to her that night, she knew. She forced herself to relax, and nursed on a glass of wine.

Jon was in his own tent, trying to build up the nerve to go to her. He had a map in front of him, and nervously dragged a small house across it, to and fro, thinking aimlessly. Why was this bothering him so much? _He_ knew it was what he wanted. All he wanted, nearly. It took him near an hour, but finally, he banged his hand on the table, so hard it startled Ghost.

It was close to midnight when the tent opened, just barely. Sansa was sat in bed, looking down at a book in front of her. It was a children's book, one she'd taken from the Manderly library. One she'd read a million times as a child. A princess, trapped away, saved by the brave knight, who fights the evil sorcerer...and so on and so on.

She snapped it closed, looking up. Wordlessly, she slid off the bed, and walked to him. She wore her heavy wool dressing gown over the silk nightdress, but the gown was open, and the silk was sheer. Jon's breath caught in his throat.

She reached for him, feeling the leather he was wearing, waiting, waiting for either of them to break the silence.

It was Jon who finally did. It was her name, he whispered, but it came out pleading, desperate, hungry. She looked up at his face, and saw his face was in anguish.

"You're still worried." she sighed. "That you'll get carried away?"

He nodded, his jaw locked.

"You don't trust yourself?" she whispered. She was centimeters from his lips, watching him carefully.

"Not with you." he said. He allowed himself to take her, pull her to his chest. He felt the curve of her back, and the gentle slope of her hips.

"I trust you, with me." she said softly. "More than I trust myself."

He pressed his forehead against hers. He could feel every curve of her, pressed against his body, it was nearly too much to handle. He squeezed his eyes shut, cherishing the moment.

She could feel his heart, racing.

"You love me." she whispered. His eyes opened, met her blue gaze.

"Only if you'll let me." he said, his voice with a slight rasp to it.

She smiled, and he mirrored the grin.

"Once I start this, you know how hard it'll be for me to stop?" he asked her.

"Tonight, or ever?" she asked. He laughed, lightly.

"Ever, then." he said. "If we're talking of evers."

She couldn't stand it any longer. She leaned forward, pressing her lips against his. A single, quick, momentary kiss. Then, he grabbed her head, burying his hands in her hair, and kissed her again. This time, deep, parting her lips with his, tasting her. She was like crystallized honey, she was so sweet.

She stepped backwards, moving towards the bed. He followed her now, and they stopped when they reached the edge. She eagerly helped him take the coat off, and then his vest. She toyed with the edge of his shirt, waiting for permission, as he numbed her lips with his kisses.

Jon pulled away, gasping, still holding onto her face.

"My beard will rub your lips raw."

She shook her head, smiling, biting down on her lower lip.

"I don't care." she whispered.

He let her slip off his shirt, and then she explored, in wonder, his upper body. She felt the indentations between his chest muscles, the hardness of his shoulders and arms. He was all edges, nothing soft about him but his lips. She slid her hand down the center of his belly, lower, rubbing her thumb comfortingly over the scars on his bell. Lower still, until she met the waist of his pants. For half a moment, her hand dropped to his hardness, but Jon gasped, and grabbed her wrist.

"Not yet." he said, gasping. She nodded, quickly. "I want to attend to you, first, otherwise..." he trailed off, not wanting to speak life to the fact that she might overexcite him.

She dropped the dressing gown. She fell back, onto the bed, looking up at him, waiting. He stared down at her, marveling in the moment. She was nearly exposed now, just a thin layer of silk between them. He wanted to tear it off her, rip it away from her, go at her like he longingly ached to, roughly. But they had a whole life together, now, and Sansa needed gentleness.

"Move up, to the head of the bed." he instructed, and she did so, quickly. She was shivering from the cold air, now, and Jon realized. "Under the covers, if you please." he said, as he quickly undid his own pants, pulling them down, leaving only his smallclothes covering him.

She slipped beneath the heavy wool comforters, silk sheets making it a divine feeling. Jon walked around to the other side, and followed her in. He pulled himself ontop of her, his legs on either side of her. He kissed her again, pressing her into the pillows. She moaned, slightly, quietly, into his mouth.

Sansa had been worried, earlier, that being so close to him might send her into a spiral of flashes of Ramsay. But she _felt_ it was Jon, even with her eyes closed. She felt his heart, burning, beneath the skin of his chest, she could feel him. Feel his spirit. Feel how he melted against her, how much he ached for her. All of her doubts, dissipated. He'd wanted her, as badly as she did him, this whole time.

He was pulling up her gown now, and lifting it over her head. He ran his hand down the length of her nakedness, feeling every indentation of scar left behind, not caring. She was perfect, every last inch of her, and she was his. She was giving herself to him, she realized, which for her, was not an easy thing to do. This thought, occurring to him, made him kiss her that much slower.

He kissed down the length of her, attending to every last soft inch of skin. Her neck, collarbone, the hollow between her breasts. Oh _Gods_ he'd have to think about those later, he needed to focus. Her belly, her hips, and then, underneath the covers, he parted her legs.

He kissed the inner softness of her thighs. She was trembling in anticipation. He could smell her, the deep animilistic smell, not bad, but that he could pick up instinctively. Finally, he tasted her, encircling her around the edges, and then settling on the hardened nub of her clit. Her back arched, and she cried out, unintentionally. With one hand, he reached up for her mouth, covering it, reminding her to be quiet. With his other hand, he supported the small of her back, enjoying the enticing taste of her. He didn't stop until he felt her entire body seize with orgasm, and she let out another unintentional wail.

He pushed himself up, meeting her face again. She kissed the taste of herself off his mouth, feeling deliciously depraved at the act of it.

She nodded, eagerly, parting her legs, feeling for him.

"Jon." she whispered his name. He was busying himself with suckling on her chest, but he looked up. She nodded again, urging him on.

He quickly removed his smallclothes, and with a gasp, he realized, Sansa was feeling for him. Her gentle and nimble fingertips found his member, and she froze.

"Gods." she whispered.

"What's wrong?" he asked, suddenly worried.

"I just...er...wasn't expecting it to be this big."

He laughed, leaning down, nibbling at her ear.

"We don't have to go any further." he assured her.

"No, I want it." she said, her voice demanding. This small sentence nearly sent him over the edge, but he forced himself back into composure.

He sat up, on his knees, holding the blankets up with his shoulders. He dipped his fingers inside her, feeling, cautiously, for her tightness. He watched, enraptured, at her face, pulled into the deepest bliss at the touch of his hand.

Then, he leaned forward. He pressed his forehead against hers, and she opened her eyes. He pressed into her, and groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. She felt so welcoming, so warm, and she was dripping with desire. She came again, quickly, whispering his name over and over as he plunged into her. Finally, he let himself go, and burying his face into her neck, taking her hands and pinning them above her head, he cried out. He'd never felt a release like that one, and he kept coming, listening to Sansa's faint mewling as he finished deep inside her.

Overcome from the force of the orgasms, Sansa felt a sudden rush of emotion. She tried to stifle it, but it seemed her body had final say. Tears blossomed at the back of her eyes, and she choked out a sob.

Jon looked up, panicked, but she was laughing, wiping at her eyes.

"I'm sorry!" she said. "I don't know what's happening."

He kissed away her tears, grinning now as well. Then, he rolled to the side, and took her in his arms, cradling her against his chest. He pressed his fingers against her lips, checking for damage.

"They do look a bit sore." he said, concerned. She giggled, hiccuping. She snuggled deeper beside him, kissing his neck, and chest. She'd never felt so warm, so safe, so complete, so utterly loved.

"Thank you." she whispered against his chest.

"You're thanking me?" he scoffed, and she laughed again.

"Mmmm." she sighed, and rolled onto her back. He sat, on his elbow, looking at her. "Can we do this, everynight, forever?"

"You'll tire of it eventually."

"I doubt that." she said.

With Jon's arms protectively secured around her, Sansa fell asleep, and then, quickly, Jon followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck slow burn, FUCK IT. 
> 
> much love my darlings. hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> xxx


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa awoke to the usual sounds of the camp. The hustle and bustle of tents being collapsed, horses being watered, rations being doled out.

Jon was sleeping under the covers, his head on her bare belly, his arms around her middle. She grinned, lifting the covers. His curls spilled, free of their usual restraint, all over her skin. She ran her fingers through the hair, carefully, feeling it's silkiness. He stirred, and kissed her stomach, and then rolled, looking up at her.

"Morning." he said, and then yawned. He pushed himself up, and sat, against the headboard, allowing the chill of the morning to awake his bare skin.

"And to you." she whispered, marveling at his face. She sat up as well, resting her head on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Incredible." she replied. "Impatient to return home."

"Straight on the Kingsroad from here, now." he said. "And then, Winterfell."

"Mmmm." she hummed. "It'll be a long journey."

"It might go by faster if you share my bed at night."

She arched a brow, surprised at this suggestion.

Just as she leaned forward to kiss him, the tent flap opened. Arya began to speak, and then froze. She stood, staring at the pair, her eyes wide. First, her face was one of abject horror, and then, it fell into complete disgust.

"Arya, wait!" Sansa cried, but she'd moved out of the tent just as fast as she'd appeared.

Arya ran through the camp, ducking around the soldiers, slipping in the mud. She needed to _go,_ she couldn't stay here and participate in something that was such a moral outrage, to everyone. She felt nausea, and scrambled through the packs of men, to the horses.

Jon acted fast, jumping from bed and pulling on his pants, and then throwing on his jacket with no shirt. He ran from the tent, sure she was going to leave, and he couldn't risk losing his sister again.

He looked both ways, and then saw her, way down the line of tents, running. She'd make it to the horses at this rate, if he didn't hurry.

He shoved past his men, his bare feet also slipping in the mud. He kept his eye trained on her, on her disappearing brown hair.

She'd reached the end of the tents, and looked around, desperately, for her horse. She swore, realizing they were watering her. She ran down the length of the edge of the camp.

"Arya!" she heard behind her. Jon was after her, she was sure, to make his excuses. She ignored him, focused on the pounding of her feet against the earth.

She lost her footing, and stumbled, taking a spill into the mud. The small mistake was enough time for Jon to reach her, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her up to look at him.

" _Let go of me!_ " she screamed, but his arms were much stronger than hers.

" _Arya, stop!"_ He shouted. She froze, she'd never even heard Jon raise his voice, nevermind it aimed at her. And Jon was no longer the boy she'd remembered from her childhood, but a man, much bigger than her. Completely intimidating when he needed to be. "Look at me, Arya." he said, his voice quieter now. She glared.

"I'm not your brother." he said.

" _What?_ " she scoffed.

"I'm _not Ned Stark's son."_ he said, urgently.

She opened her mouth to speak, but then, couldn't find the words. She wasn't resisting, so Jon let go of her.

"So who are you, then?"

Just like that, he explained everything. The theory, the conversation with Howland. She listened, her eyes wide, but the more he explained, the less panicked she looked. She nodded, understanding, when he finished.

"Sansa?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry." he sighed. "That's the part for which I have no explanation."

She stuck out her tongue, making a retching noise. Then, she sighed.

"I'm just glad you're not pulling a Lannister on us."

Jon laughed.

"No, no, I wouldn't let that happen." he assured her.

" _Sansa_ though?" she asked.

"I'm not sure you want to hear it." he sighed.

"I'm not sure I am either."

"It's different, with her and I, Arya. It's not like she was ever my sister, like you." he said. "We barely knew eachother growing up, and so, when we saw eachother again...it was like...I don't know, Arya. It all made sense, her and I." he sighed. "Sansa could probably associate some prettier words to it."

"Fine, fine." she sighed. "This is... a lot, and it might take me a while to become used to it."

He stepped closer to her.

"You can't tell anyone who I am, Arya." he said.

"Because you're Targaryen." she said, and he grinned, nodding.

"Exactly."

"Why not make a claim to the Iron Throne, then?" her eyes lighting up.

"Because I don't _want_ the Iron Throne." he said. "Winterfell is still my home, and I'm still Stark, in some ways. And there are bigger issues, Arya, coming for us, than who sits on that throne."

When they returned to the tent, Sansa was dressed. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she stood, waiting.

"He told me." Arya said, nodding at Jon. Sansa nodded. "It's weird, but, I guess, I mean...it's not." Arya sighed, as tongue tied about her feelings as Jon had been about his. "It's _fine._ " she hissed.

Sansa stepped forward, and hugged Arya. Arya froze, for a moment, and then took a breath, and relaxed, hugging her sister back.

"We should have told you, straight away." Sansa said apologetically. "I can't imagine what a nasty surprise that was."

"You have _no_ idea." Arya said.

* * *

Word had spread about Rickon's return, and on the Kingsroad, through the villages, people lined up to watch the procession pass. They cheered his name, they rejoiced in the return of Lord Stark. They watched in awed silence as the Direwolves passed them. Children ran up and handed Sansa and Arya winter roses. The North was welcoming them home.

The weeks passed quickly, and the further North they got, the colder it became. By the time they were two nights away from Winterfell, the snow was falling, and sticking. Some of the Manderly men were complaining, but as for the Starks, nobody hardly noticed, just simply wore more layers.

They all gathered in one tent, the night before the siege. They were only a few hours from home now, and everyone was impatient to get on with it. Rickon lay sleepily on the bed, beside Jon and Sansa, who sat together on the edge of it. Arya laid on the floor, tossing a ball in the air, catching it, over and over.

"Am I coming to battle with you?" Rickon asked Jon, and he grinned, reaching over to ruffle Rickon's hair.

"I'm afraid not. You'll stay behind, with your sisters."

"What?" Arya sat up.

"You're not coming, either." Jon said shortly.

" _Why_?" she hissed.

"Arya, I don't care how many people you've assassinated, but you've never been in a battle. It's much different."

"There won't be a battle, probably." Arya whined.

"No." he said. "Final answer."

She groaned, and fell back on the floor. The next moment, she launched the ball at Jon's head, which he swiftly avoided. She giggled. Sansa grinned as well, slightly, but her thoughts were somewhere else. She was relieved to be returning home, but was nervous for whatever memories waited for her there.

When it was time to sleep, Sansa couldn't. Perhaps it was the nerves, or the way the wind made her tent shake, but she couldn't sleep. Jon was in the next tent, and Arya and Rickon in theirs, across the way.

Sansa pulled herself out of bed, secured her boots, and wrapped herself in her fur.

She stepped outside, in the snow, and looked up at the stars. The sky had cleared, it had been snowing for the past few days, but now there was not a cloud in sight. The moon was a half circle, and Sansa could see the forest in the distance. The white coated pines sparkled like fine diamonds.

She heard a whining in the next tent, Jon's, and she crossed to it. She pulled the canvas back, and was surprised to see Jon, sitting at the table instead of sleeping in bed. Ghost crossed to her, greeting her with a gentle bump of his nose.

"Can't sleep?" she asked him when he looked up. He shook his head, once, and looked back at the map.

She went to him, settling her hands on his shoulders, feeling how tense they were.

"Perhaps you need a good distraction?" she whispered.

"I thought we agreed to wait until we have the security of our own home around us?" he looked up at her. She shrugged.

"I think we could both use to relieve some tension." she stroked his face, and he shut his eyes, holding her hand to his cheek.

"You don't have to be on the front lines, tomorrow, Jon." she urged him. She'd been, selfishly, trying to convince him to stay out of harm's way for the past week.

"I do." he sighed. He stood, taking her hands. "I'm going to get your home back, and I'm not going to give anyone else the honor of doing so."

She smiled, looking at the floor.

"Our home." she said.

"If you insist."

"Oh, I do."

"Come on." he sighed. "Let's go for a walk."

"A walk?" she asked, surprised.

"Aye. I need some air."

He called Ghost to him, and pulled on his own furs. He reached for Sansa's hand, and together, they walked out into the cold night. They trekked through the camp, and out of it, into the heavy field of snow. Ghost ran, delighted, into the slush, jumping after a snow rabbit that skittered past. The snow reflected the white light of the moon, and both Jon and Sansa stood silently, at the edge of the camp, watching the silent night in awe.

"Please be safe tomorrow." Sansa whispered, looking over at him.

"Of course." he said. "I have every reason to be."

She squeezed his hand tighter. She took a deep breath, and exhaled, slowly, watching her breath appear like white smoke. They stood, together, in the freezing wind, for a long while. Sansa, inched closer to him, sharing his heat.

"Come back to my tent with me?" she whispered, after the sleepiness overtook her. He nodded, and taking her hand, led her back down the aisle of tents.

* * *

Jon was awake long before the break of dawn. He kissed Sansa, lightly, who was curled up beside him, sleeping soundly. She stirred, and blinked up at him.

"I have to go." he said.

"Wait." she whispered. She took a blanket with her, wrapping it tightly around her shoulder, and went to the set of drawers. She took out a necklace, with a pendant in the shape of a dragonfly. Her father had given it to her, years before, and she hardly ever went anywhere without it on.

Jon was dressing, and she crossed to him.

"You're giving me your Favour?" he asked, grinning, amused. "I'm not a knight, m'lady, and this is no joust."

"I don't care." she said softly. She slipped it in his breast pocket, and patted it. "It'll remind you to stay safe. I want you to bring it back to me."

"So I shall." he said. "It's time to rally the men." he said, hearing a burst of a horn outside.

She nodded, and then threw her arms around his neck, shutting her eyes, squeezing him.

"Come home, to me, please, Jon." she whispered.

He grinned, pulling away slightly, pressing his forehead on hers.

"So it shall be done, if my lady orders it."

"She does." Sansa sniffed. He kissed her again, and then, was gone.

* * *

The army topped the final hill, and then, rode furiously, towards the castle, Jon at it's front. The noise of near 2,000 horses was deafening, and the ground shook with thunderous applause.

Halfway down the field, Jon slowed, and stopped.

Across the battlefield, a trench had been dug. All of the sudden, from it, the Bolton men began climbing out, swords drawn, yelling. They spilled onto the field like bugs. From the village just before Winterfell, from behind the houses, horses came galloping, Bolton men astride them.

"Archers!" Jon shouted, rounding the horse. The archers, most on horseback, lined up quickly. On his count, they began firing, taking out the first line of soldiers opposite them.

Then, Jon began shouting orders, and sent a battalion forward, towards the oncoming forces. He ordered the outflankers to come round the sides, they were going to encircle them, if they must.

The Bolton forces looked to have only 500 men, or so.

Finally, it was his turn to ride forward. Flanked by 40 men, Jon raised his sword, and urged his horse onward, at breakneck speed.

The Boltons hardly had any horses, so it was easy to strike down the oncoming men from atop his steed. Ghost ran beside him, nearly the height of his horse, and was fiercely taking in his own casualties, ripping men's arms off, biting their necks and shaking.

Jon was thrown off his horse, and fell to the ground, knocking the breath from him. Ghost gave him enough time with his defenses to pull himself back to his feet. Jon forced himself up, and then, beside Ghost, made their way through the fighting men, slashing them down with brutal strikes of Longclaw.

The battle was over in a matter of half an hour, and the Boltons were all but demolished. Winterfell stood, awaiting them, her gates open.

Jon, splattered in mud, dirt, and blood, took Ghost's withers, and they walked together, up the winding village path, and through the gates.

He stared at the courtyard. It looked exactly the same. He'd made it home.

He ordered someone to bring him a horse, any horse. He mounted it quickly, and turned it back around, through the gates, to attend to his men.

They were still in some sort of formation, some of the wounded being attended to. They all saw their commander, riding from the gates.

Jon held the sword above his head, waiting for the men to quiet.

"Today marks a battle that was easily won." he began. "Not all the coming battles will be as easy. You all fought gallantly, bravely, and you've made your houses proud."

There was a clamor of cheers in response to this, and Jon grinned.

"No matter what challenges we face in the coming months, no matter what Winter brings to us, we must remain united." he shouted. " _Who owns the North? Is it House Bolton?"_

There were jeers, boos, and hisses.

"Which house owns the North?!"

 _"Stark!_ " They cried in unison.

"Again! Louder!"

"Stark! Stark! Stark!" They began chanting, and Jon smiled wider.

Ghost, raised his head up, and began to howl.


	15. Chapter 15

Sansa walked through the gates, pulling her hood back, smiling. Snow fell gently, in tiny little white flakes. The walls above her no longer felt like confinement, but safety.

Her brother and sister walked behind her, drinking in the moment.

Sansa looked around, remembering.

"Where's Jon?" she asked, wanting so badly to share in this juncture.

They'd ridden in after they'd heard, from the camp, the cries of the men, chanting their name. They'd been received in similar fashion, the army parting for them, crying out their name and words of congratulations.

"He's attending to the injured." a passing man answered her, and she nodded in thanks.

She went towards a nearby staircase, running up it.

She opened the first room she came to, looking inside. It was cleaned out, of it's furniture, it's art, even the rugs from the floor. She went to the next, hurrying, sure they couldn't do this to every room. But they had. Sold, sacked, even burned the less valuable furniture.

She was shaking by the time she got to the third room, and then decided she could no longer stand it. She shut the door, across the stone parapet walk, and leaned against the wall, looking down into the courtyard, disbelieving. Men were carrying in supplies, stores of grain, sacks of flour, barrels of ale. She sighed, pressing her fingers on her temples. They were just _things_ she reminded herself, her family was here.

She walked the halls of Winterfell, aimlessly, as the other Stark children settled back into their rooms. The day passed, and around her there was a flurry of activity, but she felt disconnected from it all.

She finally arrived at the door she'd been dreading. The once former room of her mother and father, and then, the room of her and Ramsay's.

She pushed the door open, and was surprised to see this room had hardly been touched. The bed still sat, and she walked forward, looking at it. Ropes were still secured to the bed posts. She laughed, nervously, in disbelief. She felt nauseated suddenly, and rushed out of the room, back to the coldness outside.

She called for someone, anyone, and two guards found her.

"Remove the bed from that room." she said. "Either burn it, or put it somewhere I may never lay eyes on it."

"Yes m'lady." they responded. It took two more men to remove the enormous bed from it's chamber, but as soon as it was gone, Sansa breathed easier. She stood in the doorway, looking in.

"Sansa-" a voice said from behind her, and Jon approached her. He was still covered in filth, and she turned, nearly crying from relief, and threw herself on her. He groaned, winced, and she stepped away.

"You're injured?" she asked.

"I've had much worse." he said. "Come, I need you."

He took her hand, boldly, and led her down the hall, around a corner, and up another flight of stairs.

He pushed in the door, and pulled her inside, and locked it behind them.

She realized they were in the bathhall, and opened her mouth, about to protest no hot water could be brought up.

"I already had them ignite the coals." he said, answering her question. She smiled.

The walked to the heavy copper tub in the center of the room, and plugged it with the metal disk. She turned the faucet, and looked contentedly at the steam pouring from the spout. She went to a cupboard, and pulled out some fresh linens.

"Come here." she said gently, motioning Jon to sit beside her on the edge of the tub. She wet the cloth underneath the faucet, and then pressed it to his face. She began, slowly, to remove the layers of caked on filth. He shut his eyes, relishing her compassionate touch.

She'd cleaned his face and neck off, for the most part, and was smiling when Jon opened his eyes.

"You did us a great service today, my love." she said, her voice quiet. "Please tell me all of this blood is the other men's?"

"Worry not." he said. "I am just quite bruised."

"Let me help you?" she asked, as he began to untie his shoulder gauntlet.

"Thank you." he sighed, allowing himself to be exhausted, and allowing himself to be cared for.

She set to work, nimbly undoing what armor he still had one, and then peeling away the layers of clothes beneath. She paused, marveling at the dark colored bruises blossoming all over his body.

The tub was nearly full by the time he was undressed.

He waited, watching her with hooded eyes, as she slipped off her own layers of clothing. She stepped forward, and he reached for her, still sitting. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her to him. He pressed his face against her chest, and let out a single, shuddering sigh.

"Are you alright?" she asked, stroking his curls, which were still filthy.

"Just relieved it's over." he said. "Relieved I have you."

"Always." she said. "You always have me."

He stood, remembering, and went to the pile of clothes discarded nearby. He pulled out the necklace, and went to her, lifted her hair, and clasped it around her neck. He kissed her shoulder, and she grinned, grabbing the pedant.

He stepped into the bath, and Sansa slid in behind him. She wrapped her small figure around his, and they sat like that for a long moment.

"Come, let me wash your hair." she said, her lips on his shoulder.

He sunk underneath the water for a moment, and came back up with a gasp. She stood, reached for a chunk of soap, and returned to the warmth of the water.

She gently massaged his head, rinsing out the mud trapped in it's thickness. She hummed as she worked, and Jon thought he might fall asleep, he was so relaxed.

When she was finished, he turned round, and leaned against his side of the tub. He stared at her, his eyes aglow. Her hair was nearly all wet, turned a deep auburn from the moisture. Her porcelain skin glistened in the light of the candles, dancing reflections off the water.

She moved to him, into his arms, laying her back on his chest, so he held her. She rested her head against his neck, closing her eyes, just relishing the feel of him.

They sat in the bath for near an hour, before the water began to get cold. He told her of the battle, of it's quickness. He knew their trials were far from over, and that there were many a great battle to come. But in the moment, with her laying against him, it felt like time had frozen.

She pulled herself up first, and went to the cupboard to pull out clean linens and a dressing gown.

She dried herself off, as Jon did the same, and wrapped a thick woolen blanket around her shoulders.

"Is it too early to go to bed?" he asked, and she laughed.

"Stay here." she said, dropped the blanket and finding her dress again.

"Where are you going?"

"Just stay here, for a minute. Light the fire, stay warm, I promise I'll be back quickly." she said, kissing him on the cheek. She grabbed her fur, and then left the room.

She hurried down towards the kitchens, and found an empty sack. She filled it with a bottle of pear whiskey, a loaf of bread, some dried mutton, and a hunk of cheese. As an afterthought she grabbed two tin cups. Then, she sought out a steward, asking him what rooms had been outfitted with beds yet. Finally, she found a sack of clothes, and pulled out a clean nightshirt and fur lined wool pants.

She returned to the bathhall, and handed Jon the clean clothes.

"What's in there?" he asked, nodding to the sack.

"Supper." she said. "We're dining in private, tonight." she explained.

He smiled, touched by the sentiment.

The pair walked down the quickly darkening hallway, and Sansa guided Jon to one of the bedrooms, which had been outfitted with a wide double bed, and not much else. The room was small, but Sansa lit the hearth, and the sun was dipping into the horizon through the window.

The small room warmed quickly from the fire, and she shed a few layers, and was left in only a simple linen dress. They sat atop the bed, eating pieces of bread topped with the cheese and mutton.

"A meal fit for a king." Jon complimented, biting down on the last hunk of bread. "A battle won, and a beautiful lady to share my bed."

"Divine, I know." Sansa said, wiggling her brows. She cleared away the remnants of their meal, and returned with a heavy cup for both of them.

"We deserve it." she urged, when Jon gave her a look, and then accepted it. He finished his in one steady gulp, not even flinching, and then leaned down, setting the tin on the floor. She sipped hers more delicately, as Jon lifted the nightshirt off his head, and pulled back the quilts.

"Are you sleeping?" she asked, and he shook his head, a small smile on his lips. A moment later, after some movement, he'd discarded the pants as well.

She tried to gulp down the whiskey like he had, and coughed, sputtering the drink all over herself. Jon laughed, shaking his head.

"I suppose it gives me an excuse to shed this, now, then, doesn't it?" she said, motioning to the dress.

A moment later, completely bare, she joined him in the blankets. Her mouth found his eagerly, hungrily, rewarding him for his victory with every kiss. She rolled atop him, not wanting him to work any harder than necessary. She grinned down at him, her hair falling in loose waves.

"Do you know what you get for winning a mighty battle?" she said, coyly.

"What's that?" he asked, and she arched a brow. She leaned down, and carefully kissed every bruise. She was slowly working her way lower.

Jon cried out when she enveloped him with her mouth. His hand snapped to the back of her head, tightening around her hair, urging her on. She worked him for what seemed like hours, sloppily, unpracticed, but it felt heavenly.

The taste of him was arousing her in a new and different way. She felt emboldened, just as happy to supply the pleasure as she was to receive it. Every groan and sigh she drew from him got her just more excited.

Finally, she moved back up to his face, her lips slightly swollen. He grabbed her hips, roughly, and brought her down onto him, filling her suddenly. The noise she made came from deep within her. The angle he was hitting was a new point of ecstasy completely. Everytime she moved it brought another rush of euphoria, so she moved, up and down, slowly riding him.

He sat up suddenly, grabbing her shoulders, deepening the sensation. He rolled his hips, pushing back against her, and they worked in perfect synchronicity. He entangled a fist in her hair, and pulled her head back, licking up the length of her neck. Finally, she couldn't take the pleasure any longer, it was nearly too much to endure.

"Jon-" she gasped, sure she was about to burst. Then, she cried out, as the orgasm took her over. The force and feel of hers triggered his own, and he bit down on her shoulder as he hammered into her, soaking her insides.

The delirium of her orgasm made her grow faint, and her eyes fluttered, and she fell against him, weakly mewling. He slid out of her, and laid back down, pulling her atop him, covering her with the blankets. He kissed her, saying nothing, just gently kissing her neck, shoulders, cheeks. She was trembling, and she squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on listening to the pounding of his heart.

"Remind me to get some moontea, tomorrow." she whispered against his skin.

He felt his heart sink, and he wasn't sure why. Is that what he wanted?

She looked up, her brow furrowed, when he didn't answer.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing." he said, brushing away the feeling. "I'll remind you."

She narrowed her eyes, grinning slightly.

"Do you _like_ the idea of putting a babe in me, Jon Snow?" she asked. He thought about this for a long moment, and then looked at her, running his fingers through her hair.

"I don't know." he said softly. This clearly surprised her. Then he spoke again, more decisively. "No, no, we can't."

"Why not?"

"It's not safe." Jon said, and then nodded. "I can hardly stand the fact that I'll risk losing you, someday, nevermind whatever perfection our union may create."

She laughed.

"What about when it _is_ safe?" she asked. "Is that something you want?"

"I never thought I'd have the chance to get one." he said simply. Then he looked down at her, her chin on his chest, her blue eyes blinking up at him. "I answer to you, love, and if it's what you want, then so be it. Your happiness is mine."

She rolled her eyes, and then kissed his bare chest.

"You're too selfless." she sighed.

"Oddly enough, you're the first person to protest that." he said.

"I want you to want what _you_ want." she said. She moved closer to his face, and he could smell the sweet whiskey on her breath. "Close your eyes."

He followed her order.

"Imagine me, swollen with child. It's summer, and the world is at peace. Another babe, toddling, perhaps, holding your hand, with your dark curls, chubby cheeks, and dimples. Smiling up at you, calling you 'papa."

He opened his eyes.

"Yes." he said quickly. She smiled, sheepish. "Yes, I want that. But it's a long way away from us, Sansa."

"When the fearsome Lord Commander Jon Snow brings victory at the great war to come, when you return, beleaguered from battle, but victorious, and the snow melts away...I will give you children."

He kissed her then, grateful for her, for the weight of her on his chest, for her offer, her smile, her wide blue eyes, and the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed.

"I love you." he admitted when she pulled away. Her eyes lit up, and a smile curved around her lips.

"Oh _do_ you?" she said. "Well, good. Because I love _you_."

They fell asleep shortly after that, safely behind the ancient stone of Winterfell, their home.


	16. Chapter 16

There was a loud knock at the door the next morning, startling both Jon and Sansa awake.

Jon stood, wrapping himself in his cloak.

"Stay here." he said to Sansa in a low voice. She sat up, pulling the covers to her chin.

Jon opened the door a crack, and then slid out, keeping Sansa hidden from whoever had been knocking. As soon as he shut it, she stood, and rushed to the door, pressing her ear against it.

"We found him in the basement levels, m'lord."

"Are you sure it's him?"

"Well, sir, Lady Arya's seen him now, and she's quite convinced."

"Allow me to get dressed, and I'll see to him in a moment." Jon said after a long pause.

Sansa jumped back, and the door opened.

"It's Theon." Jon said. "He was hiding in the dungeons."

"Gods!" Sansa gasped, her eyes wide. She went to retrieve her clothes without another word.

"What are you doing?" Jon demanded of her.

"I have to see him." she explained simply.

"You can, but I'm going to speak to him first."

"That's not a good idea." she said, abandoning her search for her dress for a moment. "You'll do nothing but scare him."

"Good." Jon said flatly.

She narrowed her eyes at him, surprised at his sudden lack of compassion.

"Do you have any idea what he's been through?" she whispered.

"He betrayed our family. He had us believe our brothers were dead. He burned half the castle to the ground, and he stood by, doing nothing, watching you and Ramsay-"

She hurriedly tied on her dress, and reached for her cloak, making for the door. Jon put himself in his path.

"Sansa-"

" _Move._ " she hissed.

"I need you to understand the perspective-"

"I don't _care_ about that, right now. I need to see him."

Jon look struck by this comment, but then, stepped aside.

She hurried out of the chamber, ignoring the confused looking guard who waited for Jon. She rushed down the narrow hallways, out onto a breezeway, and then around a corner and down a long flight of stairs.

"Where is he?" she asked the first soldier she came upon.

"They haven't taken him from the dungeons yet, m'lady." he replied.

The dungeons were damp, dark, and chilly. Using the light from the torches, Sansa hastened over the cobblestones, and into the large crypt, from where she heard voices.

She burst through the door, to see a crowd of a couple of bannermen, encircled around a figure kneeling on the floor.

" _When Lord Snow gets down here I can't wait to see what he's going to do with you-"_ the bannerman at the head of the group said teasingly down to the figure. They all spun, to look at Sansa, and then all bowed quickly, greeting her with awkward 'm'lady's.'

She looked down at Theon, shivering, his hands bound behind his back.

"Gods, what have you done to him?"

The guards looked at one another, confused.

"Lady Stark, Theon Greyjoy is a traitor to your house..." the leader finally said.

"Give me your knife." she demanded, holding her hand out to him.

"Excuse me?"

"Give it to me! Now, soldier."

When he still hesistated, a spark ignited behind her eyes.

"Do I need to tell my brother you disobeyed a direct order from your lady?" she hissed. The next moment, he scrambled, and unsheathed the dagger at his hip.

She took it, and then knelt to the ground, not caring about the the mud and moisture that would dirty her dress.

"Theon." she said, her voice low. She tried to get him to meet her eyes, but he wouldn't. She moved, edging carefully, to his side, and quickly slipped the knife between the rope that bound him. Then, she relinquished the dagger back to it's original owner.

"Jon's here?" Theon finally muttered, and Sansa nodded. She set a gentle hand on his shoulder. He winced, and then allowed the touch.

"He is. Rickon as well. And you already saw Arya." she said softly. Theon didn't reply. Sansa looked up at the guards.

"Give us leave." she said simply.

"M'lady, do you think that's advisable?"

"What's your name, soldier?" she said up at him. The next moment, the group left them.

"You saw Arya." Sansa repeated, looking back to Theon.

"She didn't say anything to me." Theon whispered.

Sansa understood this, and was grateful her sister hadn't done worse.

"Jon will kill me, won't he?" he looked up at her, finally.

"No." Sansa whispered. "You've been through enough, I won't let him."

The dungeon door burst open, and they both jumped.

Jon stormed in, looking angry.

Theon scrambled away, back, into the shadows of the dungeon.

" _What are you doing?"_ he shouted, and Sansa jumped. Then, she stood, her eyes alight with anger. He stepped forward, close to her. "You released my prisoner?"

"Your prisoner?" she scoffed.

Jon opened his mouth to explain the technicality, that as acting commander of the House's forces he would also be privy to any prisoners taken during war, but Sansa's look was so icy it stopped him in his tracks.

"Are you going to listen to me, or are you going to shout more?" Sansa hissed. His jaw tightened, but he was silent. "You don't know _half_ of what he's been through, what Ramsay did to him, Jon. I was with Ramsay for a matter of months...he's been with him for years. Despite what he did-"

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but she held her hand up.

" _despite that,_ Jon. He has been through _enough._ "

"He dishonored...he betrayed...our... _your_ family, Sansa. He was raised as a brother to us, and then-" his eyes flashed with an anger Sansa hadn't seen since Jon had seen Ramsay. She reached for his chest, pleading with him.

"Let me speak with him, please." she said. "I know your feelings, Jon, I understand your loyalty, and your anger. Allow me to speak with him, just for a time, so we can discuss this _rationally._ "

With a look of disgust in the direction of Theon, Jon looked back at her, nodded once, and left. Sansa sighed, relieved she'd been able to quell his anger.

"He's right." Theon said after a long moment of silence. He still stayed hidden, in the darkness. "You have no reason to be loyal to me, Lady Bolton."

"Don't call me that." Sansa said. "How long have you been down here, Theon? When did you eat last?"

He didn't answer.

"Let me take you to the kitchens, at least. You have my word nobody shall lay a hand on you, at least until I can talk some sense into Jon."

The emptiness gnawing at his stomach, and the gentleness of Sansa's tone, finally drew him from the shadows. He was terribly thin, his already high cheekbones only more pronounced, dirt caked his face and neck, and the rags he wore were just as filthy.

"How did you get out?" he finally asked her.

"Jon came for me." she said, her voice heavy with guilt. "I tried to-"

"Doesn't matter." Theon sighed. He walked closer now. She reached for his hand, wanting to assure him she could be trusted.

He took it, and with that, she led him from the dungeons, and to the warmth of the Winterfell kitchens.

* * *

"Why is she humoring him?" Arya hissed. Her and Jon were standing in the dining hall, on the other side of the kitchen doors. Jon could hear Sansa's quiet, patient tones, as she coaxed information from Theon. "She knows you _have_ to kill him, doesn't she?"

"I don't know." Jon sighed. "Your sister has a...softness...that I don't think you or I have."

"I won't argue with you on _that_." Arya said.

"I admire it mostly, and you should too, but...you're right. We don't have much of a choice. If we don't do something, it might be seen as weakness."

"The North Remembers." Arya whispered.

Jon sat in silence for a long moment.

"Now that Rickon is returned, though, you don't think...?" he began.

"He still killed two Northern boys, Jon. You know father would already have beheaded him." Arya said quickly. "Despite what _Ramsay_ did to him, it does not make up for his past crimes. Gods, you sound like Sansa. Do you need me to do it?" she added in a teasing tone. He shot her a look.

"Sansa has a tenderness for him." he said. "I believe she feels he's the only person who can relate."

"Your word trumps hers." Arya reminded him. "Honestly, Jon, I don't _mind_ doing it-"

"Arya." he said, silencing her. "Perhaps I should council with the maester-" he continued

Arya looked exasperated.

"How in the world did the wall soften you, Jon?" she said, in disbelief.

"It didn't." Jon said. "Sansa did."

Arya made a face. Jon, without another word, left, to find the maester.

* * *

Sansa watched, only slightly nauseated, as Theon hungrily slurped down his second bowl of bone broth. The cook had warned Sansa that if he was starving, he would likely get sick if they gave him anything richer. They'd been sitting in mostly silence as Theon fed his starving body.

"He's dead." Sansa said. "You know that, right?"

Theon nodded.

"Jon killed him." Sansa said. "For what he did to me. Did to us."

Theon watched her with wide eyes. Was she really so naive to think that he wouldn't be hung at the hand of Jon Snow? Sansa, who'd seen suffering, more than most people in their world, would think that the great commander of the Stark Army, the son of Ned Stark, brother of Robb...would spare him his life due to _her_ wishes? As educated as she'd been, he thought even this was rather stupid.

He shook his head.

"Did to you." he said.

She looked at his hands, misshapen and missing fingers. She thought of the other things he was missing, and her stomach turned. Ramsay was not ever one to spare her details.

"You're nearly our _brother._ "

He set the broth down. He sighed.

"Thank you for your efforts." he said. After that, he didn't say another word, no matter how she pestered him.

* * *

The morning was cold. Icy wind shot through the halls and yards of Winterfell. Jon had counseled with the maester, and ultimately, had made the call for Theon's execution. The men were setting up the gallows in the courtyard.

Sansa had fallen silent as well, as soon as Jon told her of this, the day before. He apologized, and tried to reason with her. She wouldn't hear it, and then, refused to see him, locking herself in her quarters in protest.

Jon couldn't sleep that night. Her face, looking at him with such betrayed hurt, it had struck him deeply. He spent hours pacing his bedroom, trying to think of a solution.

Then, something occurred to him.

Under the coat of darkness, Jon left his quarters. The castle was silent around him. He went to the kitchens, and filled a sack with dried food, and a skin with drinking water. Then, he gathered some furs from a linen closet in another hall. Finally, he decended to the dungeons. Theon had been securely locked away, but Jon hadn't assigned a guard to him, and even allowed him a cot for the night.

He unlocked the door to Theon's cell. There was a noise of movement, as Theon hid himself into the corner.

"You're escaping." Jon said quickly, throwing the supplies on the cot. Theon looked up at him, eyes wide. Jon dropped a metal screw near the door, Theon's means of unlocking it. "I can't kill you. Sansa will never see me again. I should. But I can't."

Theon moved quickly, to the supplies. He gathered them, and then froze, staring at Jon in the semi-darkness.

"I've unlocked the cellar door, do you remember how to get to it?" he asked, and Theon nodded. "There's a horse in the stables, third door, she's not tied, and the stableboy sleeps at this hour. Be quiet."

Again, Theon nodded, staring in shock at Jon, his eyes wide.

"I don't care where you go. I don't care if you live or die in the wildnerness. I'd like to see you hanging as much as everyone else in this castle." Jon growled.

Theon looked at his feet, nervously.

"You owe her your life." Jon said shortly. With that, he turned, and left.

The next morning, Jon was awoken to a panicked banging on the door. He calmly stood, knowing exactly what it would be.

"He's gone, m'lord, he's escaped." The guard said, trembling. Jon played at panic, and then anger, and began going through the motions of gathering a search party. He called his men to the courtyard, and began addressing them from the stage of the gallows.

Sansa heard the clamor of activity outside, and she hurried from her room, and out onto the breezeway, looking down at the courtyard. Jon saw her, for only a moment, a flash of red in the corner of his eye. He didn't stop addressing the men. In between two sentences, he met her eyes, and Sansa saw the hint of a nod, just barely. Enough for her to see.


	17. Chapter 17

Theon had barely ridden 10 miles before he stopped the horse. The night was still frozen, chills wrapped around him. He felt nauseated, and the guilt building in his chest constricted his throat like he'd been poisoned.

It had been instinct that allowed him to run, but the adrenaline had wore off, and his conscious was now screaming at him.

What was he escaping from? An end to this chaotic life? Or a bitter continuation, a father that hated and resented him, a sister who was entirely more capable than him?

He bid the horse stop. This was craven, escaping like this. If he could muster the last bit of bravery, of goodness, of the character that Ned Stark had enlisted in him, he could _not_ run away from this. There had been no redemption. There had been nothing to absolve him of his sins. The Mother may grant Mercy, but The Father grants justice. And Justice had not been served, even if the kindness of Sansa Stark had given Jon enough leave to make this error in judgement.

He dismounted, and took the horse by it's lead. He turned around, 180 degrees. He let his feet sink into the snow, he let the icy slush sink into his broken boots. He would be a Flagellant, for his last hours, he would suffer by his own hands, and the hands of the Gods, for his crimes.

He looked up at the moon as he walked, and allowed himself to fill his lungs with cold air.

He felt peace, for the first time in years.

* * *

"You did this." Sansa said as soon as Jon walked through the door of his chamber. He wasn't surprised she was waiting for him. He didn't reply right away, but instead walked to the fire, taking off his boots. He stared down into it.

He was torn. He felt he'd done right by Sansa, but only Sansa. His guilt for everyone else was weighing down on him now. Was she to be the claim to him, and his decisions, now? Was he that easily manipulated?

"I shouldn't have." he said softly. He turned to her. "You know if anyone finds out I had anything to do with this, Sansa..."

"I know." she said. "I know _exactly_ what you risked."

She stared at the back of him, his shoulders hunched, as he watched the fire.

"Thank you, Jon." she said, finally.

She stood, slowly, going to him.

When she put her hands on his shoulders, he tensed, and then allowed himself to relax.

"I worry you turn me soft." he said.

"No." Sansa said. "You already were."

He heard a small smile in her voice, and he turned.

"I don't mean to insult you, Jon." she said, seeing his expression. "I mean only that despite how you wish to appear, I know the true man inside."

"Oh, do you?" he said. "Enlighten me, then, Lady Stark."

"You didn't have to come for me." she said. "A man with a cold heart may have gone south, retired to the seashore, enjoyed being alone." she paused, but he didn't seem convinced. "A man with a cold heart would have let himself forget his family."

"You misunderstand me, m'lady." he said, his voice grim. "I fear this was simply a moment of weakness. Of heartache, not for his misery, but for yours."

She absorbed this, and said nothing.

"I worry my...feelings towards you...my softness, perhaps, as you put it...it may cloud my judgement." he said.

"Jon-" she began, but he held his hand up. Panic struck her chest. Then guilt, and raw doubt. Perhaps, he had been right. Perhaps the only reason she felt such concern for Theon, was the projection of her own feelings, for herself, her own trauma. It had been pure, unadulterated emotion. There was no logic, there was no firmness. Even her father, one of the most competent and just rulers of men, even he did not bend when it came to the Laws of Men.

And now here was Jon, brow crumpled, and she could practically feel the regret hanging off of him, it was so tense. He'd sacrificed so much, his own character of will, for what? For _her?_ For her emotions? Because it was too much for him to bear to see her upset, angry with him?

She wasn't angry at him, she was angry with Ramsay. Even from the grave, he was still manipulating her, scaring her. Because she saw the same weakness she felt in herself, in Theon, and she needed to protect that.

They were both silent for a long time.

He looked at her, his face oddly blank.

"I'm sorry." she said, finally. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have...I shouldn't have..." she began muttering, and then took a breath.

It was like she'd said exactly what he'd needed to hear. His body untensed, and he sighed.

"No...I know why you did it, Sansa. I know why- I understand."

"I'm so sorry." she breathed, putting her hand to her chest. Her eyes were wide, and she shook her head, in disbelief at her own self. "I don't know...I don't know how to fix this, Jon. I've ruined it."

"There's no fixing it." Jon said.

Her chin trembled, slightly, but she forced herself not to cry.

"I'm going to the Godswood." she said, with finality. He looked at her, puzzled. And then nodded, and with that, she left him.

* * *

Sansa, bundled in furs, sat underneath the Godswood tree. She pressed her palm against it, contemplating, praying vaguely, neither to the Old or New Gods, but to anyone. Anyone who would listen. Who might give her divine intervention, alleviate her sorrows, her doubts. She played nervously with her hair as she sat, her eyes shut.

She wished more than anything she could speak to her father, he would know what to do.

The morning had broken into a brightness, that beat across the snow with an unrelenting gleam. She felt guilt, nausea, and incredibly small. Mostly, because of piece of her still wanted Theon to remain punishment free. But she understood, feelings aside, he deserved his original sentence. Now, she was sure, the gods would deliver whatever justice they felt necessary, to her.

Suddenly, she heard shouts in the distance, and the distinct creaking of the gates being pulled open.

She stood, brushing her knees off of frost, and went in the distance of the noise.

She reached the men before Jon did, and she saw, with a sick understanding, Theon, bound, on the back of a horse. His face was completely serene, and when he locked eyes with her, he inclined his head once.

She pushed through the men, darting around the horses. She went to him, she touched his leg gently.

"I'm sorry." she said. "Even though...despite...everything, I still don't think you deserve what _he_ did to you."

He nodded.

"But they didn't deserve what I did to them, either." he said, his voice low.

Understanding, she felt herself nod. He was right.

She turned round, sensing something, and saw Jon approaching, Ghost at his heels. The men parted for him much quicker than they had from her, and then he was beside her. He reached up, and taking his shoulder, pulled Theon down off the horse.

"You know what has to be done?" he asked, and Theon nodded, his head straight. Jon looked grim. "So be it, then."

He began to lead Theon away, but Sansa grabbed him.

"Not the gallows." she said. He narrowed his eyes, but then, nodded.

"Aye." he sighed. "The sword will be quicker. And painless."

Theon winced, but barely.

 _Thank you._ Sansa mouthed at Jon.

Theon was led away, up the steps of the gallows.

"Fetch me a block." Jon ordered. He wanted to be quick about this. To settle his doubts. To settle the entire thing. He did not need to know if it was his men that caught up, or if Theon had turned back. He'd been given a second chance, a chance to prove to The North the strength of House Stark.

As he read Theon his crimes, a crowd gathered, mostly the men of the house, but a few stewards and maidens. Sansa lingered, away from the crowd, but she wouldn't turn away. She would harden her heart, and watch justice be served.

This _was_ justice, she reminded herself. This was not her father's murder. This was not a man being tortured and flayed. This was the duty of the house, and the commander of her army, following through.

The sound of Longclaw being unsheathed cut the silence of the yard. It glinted in the bright morning sun, as he did it, in one strong motion.

There was a dull thunk, and she turned away, feeling bile at the back of her throat. She felt dizzy, but forced herself to remain upright. Though she understood everything, and even felt some peace from it, the action had recalled unpleasant memories of that day in King's Landing.

Jon cleaned the sword quickly with a rag. He called Ghost to him. His heart pounded in his ears, but he felt better, oddly.

He looked up, and met Sansa's eyes. Her chin was raised, and she looked distinctly determined. He felt pride well in his chest. She turned the next moment, and disappeared up a flight of stairs.

It would be a couple days, as they let the dust settle between them, before they spoke to one another again.

* * *

A few days later, they reunited, and Sansa felt as though there was a much different, much stronger understanding between them. That in her desperation to control her life, she overreached. And still, he'd done such a out of character thing, for her. Her affection for him had only grown.

Their rooms, though separate, had a small adjoining hallway. Sansa stood before his door, getting the courage to knock, to break the odd silence they'd built between them.

As she raised her hand to the door, it opened, and she jumped. Then, Jon, seeing her, startled as well. And then, they both smiled.

"You're not upset with me any longer?" she asked, timidly.

"No, I never was." he sighed. He stepped back, allowing her in. She went to the bed, sitting on the edge of it.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry I didn't trust you." she said. He went to her, standing above her. He leaned forward, kissing her forehead.

"We have to trust eachother, you and I?" he said. "We're all we have."

She nodded, and let these words warm her from the inside out. She looked up, and saw a trunk, open, and clothes spread out across a table. Her heart sunk. He went to it, and continued filling it.

"You're leaving." she said, remembering.

"Aye." he said. "Not for long, a couple of weeks. But we need to meet with the other houses, the ones further north. I need to assure their forces are ready."

"I can't...?" she said, letting the rest of the question die on her tongue.

"You're a distraction." he sighed. He looked up at her, and smiled. Then she stood, crossing the room, and began refolding his messy pile, in the trunk. He watched her for a moment, leaning against the table.

"You may need a distraction." she finally concluded. "You'll go completely grey before you turn thirty, without me to ease your worries."

He laughed, and she pinkened. She felt his hands on her waist, and then the weight of his head, resting on her shoulder.

"We can pack tomorrow." he said softly. He pulled her closer still, and sighed. She turned round, not leaving his arms. She reached for his face, pushing away a stray curl, escaped from the knot at the nape of his neck.

"Allow me to distract you then." she whispered. "Just for the evening."

He made a noise at the back of his throat, hungry for her suddenly. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the torches.

" _Gods._ " he groaned, taking her small face in his hands. "I am going to miss you."

"Then be quick about your duties, m'lord." she said. "I will stay here, and keep your bed warm for you."

He walked backwards, edging her to the bed. Delighted in the touch of her, and thrilled with the inevitable reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Literally ya'll need to relax. You think I'd let him off that easy? NAH. Who needs mercy? This is Game of Thrones! More soon, my darlings. Thank you for your comments, and support, as usual. I adore each and every one of you, SO MUCH. XXXX Shiloh


	18. Chapter 18

Sansa was in Rickon's chamber, it was early in the morning, and his days of Lord training were just beginning. He watched himself in the mirror, as Sansa hurriedly rushed around him, tidying up his room. He felt like a fish out of water, and awkward in the finery his sister had ordered made for him. His doublet was solid charcoal grey, and his jerkin an olive green, to match his cape. Sansa had his hair trimmed, and the waves were now fashionably tousled just atop his head, instead of reaching his shoulders.

"I look ridiculous." he sighed.

"You look nice." she said, reassuring him. She met him in the mirror, readjusting him slightly.

"I don't _want_ to attend to business." he whined, and she rolled her eyes.

"Jon isn't here to do it for you." she said, flatly. "And either way, you need to learn how."

He sighed. He called Shaggydog to his heel, and rested his hand on his black head. He raised his jaw, slightly, and then tried on a smile. Again, he made a noise of complaint.

"I look like a fool."

"You just need to get used to it." she said. "You were accustomed to wildling furs, but you can't preside over a house in wildling furs. Enough complaining. If Robb could do it, if Jon can, and father, even, you can deal with it."

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like, if nobody had ever left? If we were all still here. Mother and father, and Robb. I wonder what Robb would look like now? Do you think he'd be much taller? Or have a beard?"

Sansa felt her heart sink, but gave him a small smile.

"I suppose he would." she said. "Perhaps he'd look a bit like Jon, a bit like father."

"You look like mother, y'know." he said, turning to his older sister, taking her hand. "She'd be proud of us, Sansa. I know she would."

"You're right. She would be. But you know what she wouldn't be proud of?"

"Hmm?"

"You giving your older sister a challenge when she's simply trying to help. Come on, now, you're expected in the hall with the council momentarily."

"Who's the council, again?"

She made an annoyed noise, and without answer, pushed him in the direction of the door.

"I'll explain on the way down. Have you _really_ been paying that little attention?"

"Well, I mean, I tried..." he said woefully.

* * *

Once Rickon was settled in the council chamber, the maester beside him, Sansa excused herself to the offices where the books and accounts were kept. She was to be the head of the household, which means she needed to get a grasp on the household funds, as she was sure there had hardly been any accounting of it when it was held by the Bolton Bannermen.

She spent some good amount of time searching the room for the most current recordings, and by the afternoon, had a good grasp on where they were. With Lord Manderly's aid, the castle had returned to the prosperity of wealth she was familiar with in her youth. Which was better news than she was hoping for.

She went to the kitchens to take stock of the household's pantry, which after the couple weeks they'd been there, was growing slim again.

These activities calmed her, she was well practiced at them, she'd spent most of her youth learning the ins and outs of running a home, and now she could do it.

Arya found her in the kitchens mid-afternoon, and hopped on the counter, sitting casually. Sansa gave her a look, but said nothing in protest.

"And _what,_ pray tell, am I supposed to do all day?" Arya asked. "Rickon gets the boring...I don't know, council stuff, talking about taxes and army movements, you get to do the even _more_ boring nonsense of accounting and managing the kitchens."

"Did Jon not tell you?" Sansa asked, standing up straight, her brow furrowed.

"Clearly not, as I'm _asking you._ " Arya said, and Sansa sighed, ignoring her attitude.

Sansa set the accounts book and her pen down, before walking towards the hall. Arya paused in surprise, and then jumped down, following her sister.

Sansa walked through the halls and then out into the courtyard, Arya on her heels, asking the entire time where she was going. Sansa found her way to the guardhouse, and when she opened the door, there was a chaotic scene as all the men within scrambled to bow and greet her properly. She grinned, her cheeks flushed.

"I came for Bryson." she said simply, and caught his eye. She waved him forward, and out of the house, back into the chill of the afternoon. She motioned to him, as he bowed politely to Arya.

"Bryson is the lead swordsman trainer in the Manderly forces. Jon left him behind so you could work with him."

Arya gave her a look, disbelieving.

"Er, no offense intended, Ser Bryson, but I don't think I need-"

"You misunderstand me." Sansa said. " _You'll_ be training _him._ "

Arya's eyes lit up.

"We hear you have Bravvos training, m'lady." Bryson said eagerly. "Their techniques hardly make it this far north, and they have some of the best fighters in the world."

"Aye." Arya said. She straightened. "Well, then, gather some of your men, and we can begin."

" _Now,_ m'lady?" He said, arching a brow.

"No time like the present, Ser Bryson." She said, grinning wider, and then arched a brow at Sansa, in a small motion of thanks. Sansa looked pleased, and with that, she left her sister to get to work.

* * *

Jon was in Deepwoode Motte, the seat of House Glover. He was slightly tense from the initial visit. The Glovers hadn't offered the warmest welcome, but with the forces of Manderly behind him, they didn't have much of a choice.

Lord Glover had warmed to him quickly, however, even if the rest of the house hadn't. The further North the men would travel, the more people may know about Jon, and Jon was a legend to Lord Glover. Though he made his opinions clear on how he felt about the wildlings, ("a damned stupid move, Lord Snow, if I could ever dream of one more stupid, they may send me away") Jon had become renowned for his sword fighting and battle commandments.

The last night of his stay, they dined in the great hall, and Glover pushed many a flagon of ale on Jon. Jon, who could hold his booze quite well, was allowing himself to enjoy the bustling banquet.

Many a maiden had appeared throughout the night, and one was atop Glover's lap as he joked with Jon jovially.

"Get yourself a woman, come on now." Glover said, slapping Jon across the back.

Jon took another swig of ale. He had no intentions of doing any such thing, but this wasn't the first time a Lord of House had encouraged it. Though he knew he was respectable, the commander of the Stark Army, there wasn't a chance any Lord would offer any marital prospects to him, a mere bastard.

"I've got one." Jon said. "I appreciate the offer, though."

"Aye, you may, but she isn't here, is she?" Glover said with a small burp, and then grappled at the breast of the woman atop his lap. Jon sighed, clearly his presence there was about to be unnecessary, and he excused himself.

The next day they would head to Bear Island, and the ale was already making Jon sleepy. He found his way out of the hall, pushing through the throws of men mingling with the numerous ladies of the court.

He pushed out, and into the wooden hallway. This castle reminded him a lot of Castle black, with it's wooden walls and rooms. He made his way in the direction of the chamber he'd been assigned, but there was a creaking of wood as the great hall's door was opened again.

A young woman with blonde curls hurried after him, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Lord Snow." she said, with a small grin. "Lord Glover ordered me accompany you to your chambers."

He sighed.

"That's alright, really." he said, assuring her.

"Don't worry about payment, m'lord, he's already handled it."

"In that case, I suppose you'll get a night off then, eh?" he said, and made to turn away again, but she grabbed his hand.

"There's nothing to be worried about, m'lord." she said, tugging impatiently at his arm. "I won't tell a soul, I swear it."

"What's your name?"

"Elenia." she said. Her lips were small, and curled funnily. She was elfish, and Jon wasn't sure he thought she was very attractive.

"My lady, I assure you, it's not something I want."

"Should I go fetch a lord, instead?" she whispered, arching a brow. "It's very discreet, but we do employ one young man-"

" _No._ " Jon said, laughing lightly. "I just...am...betrothed otherwise, and don't want to do my lady the dishonor."

She paused, and then widened her grin.

"I heard you was honorable, Lord Snow. That's alright." she shrugged. "Is there anyway you could see me out, at least, so I don't have to go back in there?"

He listened for a moment to the boisterous cries of his men. Then he nodded, and she followed him, bouncing lightly as she did, and he led her down the long hallway.

"Did you kill lots of whitewalkers, at the wall, like Lord Glover said? I don't know if I'd believe in 'em unless I'd seen one."

"Aye." Jon only bothered to answer.

"They're real then?" she continued. "Is that where you got that scar there, Lord Snow?" she said, pointing at his face. He paused, and looked down at her.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I'm 16, m'lord."

"That makes a bit of sense, then." he said. "Lady Elenia, it's not a subject most men of the wall can discuss at ease, so if you'll forgive me."

"My!" she said, giggling. "Lady Elenia. I haven't been called that near ever, I don't think."

They'd reached the end of the hall. Beyond the door they stood behind was the exit to the courtyard, and Jon opened it for her.

"Have a good night, then." he said, slightly awkwardly.

She looked at the dark night, and pulled her fur around her tighter.

"You know them Wildlings you let in?" she asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. "They have an encampment not far from here, m'lord, and some of the men, they come...and linger, outside the walls of the fortress, have their way with our ladies, see."

This surprised him, and he shut the door, keeping the wind from the hall.

"They know they're not supposed to mingle with the people of the north." he said, his voice gruff.

"Aye, they didn't at first, Lord Snow. But they've been gettin' bolder, sir, and having to come closer to settlements, see? The game that far north isn't as plentiful as here. I don't know if you really have much...to do with thems anymore, but it's been quite exhausting."

He looked down at the girl, barely Arya's age, who's eyes were wide with concern. She'd probably seen more of the worst of men that even he, a man from the wall, had seen. And yet, she looked so small.

"Do you live in the village?" he asked.

"Aye. Just beyond the gates of the castle. It's just a little...bit frightening, I guess, I mean, I hear all these stories about how honorable you are, I thought you may want to know."

He thought this over in his head. He wondered if he could convince his men to make a small detour, just to see who ran the Wildling encampment. Surely the north would continue to have inner strife if someone didn't see that they fell back in line.

"Come, I'll walk you there." he sighed. He tightened the cape he had on his shoulder, and then whistled. After a moment, Ghost came plodding out of the shadows.

"Really?" she asked, her brows shooting up. "I assure you I wasn't asking for charity, I only thought you might want to-" She looked at the wolf warily, but her eyes were sparkling in wonder.

"It's fine." he said, and opened the door again. "Ghost won't hurt you, I promise."

Elenia chattered aimlessly at him as they walked through the snow, and he realized he didn't need to give too much to the conversation.

As soon as they left the castle walls (not before the guards manning the gates gave him some questionable looks), the air shifted. The village was tense, and eerily quiet.

He glanced behind them, as they went onto the moonlit path through the trees. There were no guards on the outside of the castle, he realized. Then, he thought perhaps he should have had another guard escort her, and not offer himself. But the presence of Ghost, just behind them, settled his nerves significantly.

His concerns became solidified as soon as they were into the heavy treeline. Elenia had fallen silent, and inched closer to him, watching the trees.

There was a cracking of breaking brush, and from behind two trees, two men appeared, both clearly wildlings.

"We was hoping that some pretty lady might come down from the castle tonight-"

"Oi." the younger one shoved his partner in the ribs. "That's _the_ crow."

"What?" the second one said, squinting at Jon.

Ghost, who was near invisible in the whiteness of the trees, inched forward, and the two men saw him at the same time, and stepped back.

"It _is._ " the first man whispered.

"Who runs your encampment?" Jon demanded, ignoring them. He spoke with a seniority so intimidating, neither even thought to question it.

"Ragand." the second, younger one sputtered.

"Cousin of Tormund?" Jon demanded, and they both nodded. "You know you aren't ever supposed to approach villages of the North? Did you forget that in the months since you were allowed through?"

They exchanged nervous looks. Jon raised his hand, and Ghost let out an intimidating growl.

"I have grounds to kill you both here, make an example of this." he said, his voice dangerously low. Elenia watched the whole scene with wide eyes, shivering in the cold. "I'll be by your camp tomorrow, understand? Tell this Ragand to expect me."

They both nodded again. Ghost growled, and with a suddenness, they both moved away, and disappeared back into the trees.

Elenia looked up at Jon, her mouth agape.

"Come on then." he said, and continued forward.

"Thank you." she said, quietly, before scurrying after him, her boots slipping in the snow.


	19. Chapter 19

"M'lord, I'm not sure it would be advisable."

Jon was standing before a group of men, his closest advisers, three generals, stood at the forefront.

"I _understand_ the hesitation." Jon said. "Despite prejudices, they are but men, and only born on the wrong side of the wall."

"Men who killed thousands of northerners and their families." another man added.

"And what did we do to them, _invite them in for tea_?" Jon asked, and waited. "I am your Lord Commander. The fact that there are men among you who might refuse to accompany... is grounds for execution by reason of treason. I've done it before, and I'll do it again, if I must."

Again, silence met him. Jon was breathing heavily now. He was frustrated, beyond belief.

"Not to mention, you are of Lord Manderly's forces. If any one of you has been, or even knows someone who has ever been harmed, never the less _met_ , any wildling, I hereby dismiss you from the call."

For a third time, the room sat silent. Most of the men looked uncomfortable, now. Some squirmed in their chain and armor.

" _So it's settled then._ " Jon roared, his eyes ablaze. "We leave at first light."

He stormed from the room, Ghost at his side. He was anxious. The hesitation of the men, and even anger and disgust from some them, made him extremely nervous. Mutiny had happened to him before, and he didn't have a red woman to bring him back this time.

He hardly slept the rest of the night. He kept one hand on Ghost's head, the other on his sword.

* * *

Sansa awoke feeling eerily anxious, for no particular reason. She dressed and put her hair back, and went to tend to the greenhouse, which had fallen into serious disrepair for a while.

The greenhouse was comfortably warm, and she became dissolved in her work for a good while before anyone came to call on her.

A steward burst through the door in the late morning, startling Sansa.

"Lady Sansa, House Tallhart rides upon the gates."

Sansa straightened, confused.

"House Tallhart _?_ " she asked. "Praytell why?"

"Eddara wishes to speak with you, and Arya. She's brought her eldest nephew, Aeron, with her."

"They didn't wish to send a raven? Also, why myself and Arya? What of Rickon?"

"She says it directly concerns you, m'lady, and the future of the house."

Sansa sighed, and dusted off her skirts.

They met in the Great Hall. Lady Eddara Tallhart was tall, thin, with curly grey hair she kept swept away from her face. Herself and a group of 5 men approached the table at the head of hall, where Sansa and Arya waited. They all bowed.

"M'lady, a raven would have been appreciated. We would have had much finer preparations awaiting you."

"I like to see how the lady keeps her house." Eddara said with a thin smile. Sansa arched a brow. Despite the Lady being sworn to house Stark, she spoke down to Sansa as though she was an impudent child, not her superior. "I came today to propose a union between our two houses. Years ago, before your father, of course, and your mother..." she put her hand on her chest, showing grief. "A union between my nephew, Aeron, and Arya was suggested."

"What?" Arya giggled. Eddara motioned, and her nephew stepped forward. He was tall, broad shouldered, with a heavy jaw, dark eyes, and brown-gold curls.

"House Tallhart has long been ignored when it comes to political matches." Eddara continued. "However, we have nearly one of the only men of marriage-age left, since your brother's rebellion. And unless you plan to wed yourself or your sister to a widower with grey hair, well into his fifties-"

"My Lady, I don't plan to wed myself, or especially my sister, off so quickly." Sansa said sharply. "After my past two marriages I am afraid I'm a bit disenfranchised with the idea."

"Arya, then." Eddara insisted.

Arya looked the nephew up and down, and then laughed again.

"You must be joking." Arya said. Sansa shot her a dangerous look.

Arya motioned, for Nymeria to stand with her, and she crossed around the front of the table before Sansa had a chance to stop her. The wolf made the group step back in hesitation. Arya made a quick whistle, and Nymeria bounded towards Lord Aeron. This was not in a threatening manner, in fact, the beast looked quite delighted to socialize, but the mere size and lore of the creature, frightened the rest of the party.

"When there is a man in the north who does not flinch at the sight of a direwolf-" Arya said simply. "Only then can that man be welcomed into House Stark. How do you expect to marry one of us if you can't hardly stand beside our sigil and not flinch?"

"Forgive me, m'lady, our house sigil is merely trees." Aeron said. "I'm not used to having such an impressive mascot upon me."

Arya arched a brow, and there was a hint of a grin on her lips.

"Lady Eddara." Sansa said. "This proposal is not only not necessary, but completely untoward."

Eddara stood awkwardly in silence.

"Did you expect us to jump at the opportunity?"

"Lady Sansa, all due respect, unmarried women in the ruling class of Westeros don't get much done, despite their namesake. I merely wished to do my duty, and assure House Stark be as competent as possible, to ensure the continuation of the greatness."

Sansa and Arya exchanged looks.

"M'lady, you have a house run by a child, an army led by a bastard, yourself are twice married, no heirs, and Arya has a reputation."

" _My lady_ do you doubt my blood?" Sansa demanded. "Do you doubt Arya's, or Rickon's? Do you think us impostors?"

"No-"

"And yourself and your bannerman, sworn to House Stark?" Sansa continued.

"Well, yes-"

"And so _we_ have the say, then, m'lady, as we are your vassal house, and you, or your husband, or your father, at some point, promised to do what we say, pledge your swords, men, sons, and monies to our name and cause?" Sansa stood, slowly. "I understand your point, and the marriage can be considered in a few years time. Arya is just barely 15 and just returned home after being on the run for nearly 4 years. If my mother were here, or even my father, they would have laughed you out of our hall as soon as it was suggested."

Eddara looked as though she'd been smacked.

"The _answer_ is no." Sansa said, with finality. "You may go. Torrhen's Square is near enough that you can make it back within a couple days."

Arya was smiling widely now, watching the scene with her arms crossed over her chest.

Eddara sputtered awkwardly, before curtsying, and leaving the room, cheeks flushed in anger.

"The _nerve_ of that woman." Sansa said with a dark tone. "Offering her nephew because she thinks us incapable, as mere ladies."

"What's my reputation, you think?" Arya asked. "You suppose it's a bad one?"

Sansa laughed.

"Starks have always had wild reputations by northerners. I heard, in Kings Landing, Robb would ride his wolf into battle."

"And they're already so frightened of Jon." Arya said. "Back from the dead to command his family's army."

"I must write to him." Sansa said. "The others may begin descending, for him, for Rickon, for whoever. There is attractiveness in power, and the northern houses are loyal, yes, but they also want to share in our glory."

"How much longer is his journey?" Arya asked.

"Another fortnight, I'm afraid."

"Well, good. I think we may need him. Rickon is a son, yes, but she's right, Sansa."

Sansa looked up, surprised at this.

"He's but a child. And our house needs a man, right now." Arya said.

Sansa swallowed, and nodded slowly.

* * *

Jon rode through the wildling encampment, surprised at how much it looked like the ones on the other side of the wall. The same tents made of wood and skins, the same distrustful glares as he walked down the middle of it. He only rode into the camp with 10 men, the rest lay in wait on the outskirts. Close enough to be an imposing threat.

"The great and mysterious Lord Commander." A voice called, and from the last tent, a man with a red beard and hair appeared.

Jon dismounted quickly, not wanting to appear above him. To get respect, with Wildlings, you must provide it.

Ragand bowed his head, and Jon returned the gesture.

"Your cousin fought beside me with the bravery of 10 men." Jon said. "The realm owes your family a debt."

"Aye, Tormund has always had a bullhead and a mighty swing." Ragand said. "But my men came to me last night saying you were to be expected, and I was surprised you could be bothered to see us."

"You're men of the north." Jon said. "House Stark oversees The North. I command their army, so, I oversee you. No men have more worth over others. The gods see us all as equals."

"We have different Gods." Ragand said simply.

"That may be." Jon said. "But now we must exist under the same laws. The only way your people may live here, in peace, without hostility, is if you keep them in order."

Ragand looked unfazed.

"We don't believe in punishment for what comes natural to our men." Ragand said.

Jon's face darkened. He stepped closer.

"Despite what you believe, your men will be hung for any missteps. On my orders, from now on." Jon said. "This side of the wall finds these acts of violence unnatural, I'm afraid. If there's reports again, from any women of the nearby village, the perpetrators will be hung."

Ragand crossed his arms, scowling at him.

"And you'll be here to enforce these laws?" he asked with a bit of a laugh. "Like your proper northern men _don't_ have their way with the proper northern ladies."

"No." Jon said. "Not without punishment. Not anymore."

He said this simply, and Ragand allowed his bushy brows to raise an inch.

"I must admit." Ragand said. "The temptation was unbearable. Wildling women defend themselves, your proper northern ladies don't seem to have the will or strength."

"I don't wish to hear your excuses." Jon said. "You tell your men it's now to be a crime that is punishable only by death. Do you understand?"

"Lord Snow, I'm only allowing you to speak like this to me because I wish to keep peace between my people. They've lost far too much. You got them past the wall. But I maintain them here. And our ways will not stop."

"Then you'll return to the other side of the wall, Ragand." Jon said. "Within the confinement of the camp borders, the law is yours. Beyond that, it's mine."

Ragand nodded once, and returned to his tent.

The wildlings watched Jon with a mix of fear and anger. He wasn't sure which he preferred, but he felt chills up his spine as he remounted his horse.

* * *

Sansa had finished penning the letter to Jon, and sealed it with a bit of wax and a stamp. She wrote of the proposal, of the day they'd had in the Great Hall, of the state of the castle. She finished it with a few short sentences of how the bed was cold without him, not thinking twice as she easily scribbled it onto the page.

She went to fetch a raven, and tied the letter to the leg with twine. Without a word, the raven took off.

She watched it fly into the cloudy sky, and then turned, returning to her duties.

Miles out of Winterfell, the bird was shot down with a sudden arrow.

A small hand picked it up, ran it's fingers over the neat script atop it that said 'Jon Snow.'

"My." the young lady said, arching a brow. She turned to her companion, who waited for her on horseback. "Lord Baelish will be quite pleased with this, I think."

"What is it?" the man on horseback asked.

"The fine Lady Sansa is in love with her brother." she giggled. "They're... _intimate._ "

The man made a face, and took the letter from her.

"Oh, he'll pay us a pretty penny for this, indeed." he sighed.


	20. Chapter 20

The rest of the week passed quietly, both in Winterfell with Sansa, Rickon, and Arya. And further North, with Jon, the campaign was continuing smoothly, and winding down to an end.

But in the South, the raven had flown swiftly from the forest of the north, to The Eyrie, and then, away, to the Red Keep.

Cersei was at first irritated when the steward brought news of of Littlefinger's note. She rolled her eyes, and began to lift her hand, wave him away. She had no time for Littlefinger, not after what he'd done.

"It's regarding Sansa Stark." he said quickly.

She paused, and then stepped forward. She nodded, and he handed her the letter.

She read the first page, ignoring the apologies that he'd written out extensively, assuring his allegiance. She scanned to the second paragraph, and she felt her mouth curl into a smile. _Oh the irony of it all._ How the prosecutors of sins would be the biggest sinners of all.

She considered her options as she paced, holding her goblet of wine. Gods, this was an ironic mess. The religious zealots had imprisoned her for her crimes, and she'd destroyed those religious zealots. And now, she would be doing the same thing, for near the same crime.

It didn't matter. The girl would pay, and she'd let Littlefinger do the dirty work. He was offering, to act as marshal of the law of her Holiness the Queen.

 _Holy._ She grinned again. The sick, sick irony.

She sat, and began penning the document. There was one condition, of course, she added at the end of the letter. If he really wanted to make it up to her, he knew what he needed to do.

* * *

Sansa was flitting around the kitchen, hovering around the cooks, wanting to help but not having the ability to, so instead satisfying herself with managing.

"Sansa!" Rickon said, bursting through the door, his face red. He ran, and then stumbled, catching himself on the counter.

"Oy, Lords do _not_ run in the house." Sansa said.

He scoffed.

"Even mother wouldn't scold me on that."

Sansa sighed. She crossed, taking his arm, and leading him out of the kitchen.

"They're nearly home." he said, his grin wide. "Just got a raven from the militia, they'll be here by the end of next week."

" _Really?_ " she said, her eyes lighting up. He nodded.

"Does this mean I don't have to go to the boring council meetings any longer?"

"No!" Sansa said in a singsongy voice, her smile still wide. "You _still have to._ "

He groaned.

"I'm sorry, darling." she sighed. She ruffled his hair. "I know you never signed up for this."

"It's alright." he said. "I have to do my duty."

"Yes, you do." she kissed him on the forehead. "And I have to do mine. Unless you'd like to switch, and you can order all the flour and grain?"

He scowled, and then grinned.

"C'mon, they've just pulled some applecakes from the over. I bet I can grab you a couple, hm?" Sansa offered, and Rickon looked thrilled.

Sansa wondered to herself that evening why she'd never heard back from Jon after she'd written the letter, but then she pushed this thought aside, assuring herself it was merely because he was busy.

The progress on the house, she was proud to say, was immense. The rooms had been cleaned out, top to bottom, and scrubbed so the floors gleamed. The rooms, for now, were furnished quite simply, with sturdy furniture made by the local artisans. The walls were then mostly bare, the fine tapestries and wall hangings had either been sold or destroyed. Sansa solved this issue by covering them with Stark banners, which they had an endless supply of. From every inch of the castle, direwolves on the white plane growled menacingly at passerby. She insisted some of the darker rooms be repainted, in white or yellow paint, because the darkness from the constant cloud was bad enough.

New linens had been ordered, as well as extra quilts and furs for the coming winter. The cooks were busy drying, pickling, jarring, and salting nearly everything. The men not with Jon, Sansa ordered frequently to hunt, so they'd have plenty of meat when the big snows finally trapped them in the castle.

The daylight was short, and usually hidden behind clouds. Thick frost coated the walls of the castle, and hardened at night, giving the castle an icy sheen. Within a few weeks, the snow would pile higher and higher, and they would be bound inside for a time, in between the unpredictable thaws of The North.

Sansa laid in bed, absentmindedly braiding her hair. She felt uncharacteristically calm. It seemed like everything had fallen into place. As she considered this, and reflected on her calmness, then came the nerves. She sighed, falling back into the pillows. The thoughts began swirling, listing every possible thing that could go wrong in the coming weeks. That maybe Jon wouldn't come home, and she'd be alone, here, a matriarch to her people, but a disgraced and unwanted one. Maybe Arya would go stir crazy, insist on leaving, or Rickon would fall ill.

She smiled, as she could clearly hear Jon's voice in her head, now.

 _"Will you just worry about one thing at a time?"_ he would say, and massage the furrow of her brow until she would grin, and it would dissipate.

She thought of how much she missed him, as she slowly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The army had just passed through the village near Long Lake, and were heading steadily south, towards Winterfell. The Kingsroad was emptier now, and they hardly ran into other travelers.

In the morning, as the army moved slowly through the winding trail, Jon saw a figure appear at the forefront of the trees, ahead of them a ways. He didn't think much of it at first, it was a lone rider, just a man shrouded in black. Then, it became apparent, the rider was heading directly towards them.

Jon recognized the figure as he drew closer, and he held his hand up, stopping for a moment.

"No need to slow the entire brigade down for me." a low voice said, a hint of amusement.

"Lord Davos." Jon said, riding forward to greet the man. Davos inclined his head. His short trimmed beard had grown longer, and he looked slightly road weary.

"I was just heading to see you in Winterfell."

Jon arched a brow. "Is anything the matter? News from the Wall?"

"No, m'lord. I'm just afraid it's not the most diverting place. And as I've taken no oath, I figured I may leave."

Jon grinned wider. He was happy to see a familiar, and loyal face. Jon waved the Army forward, and at the forefront, caught Davos up on the happenings. He even told him of the truth of his ancestry, he was surprised to listen to himself admitting this. But Davos had saved Jon's life, or brought him back to it. Whichever. He was as trustworthy as a man could possibly be.

"What of the red woman?" Jon asked.

"She supposedly heads south." Davos said.

Jon considered this, and then nodded.

"I'm sorry I didn't invite you to accompany me, South, when I left."

"You didn't get very far, did you now?" Davos said, arching a brow. "Here we still are, in the cold and unforgiving North."

"I couldn't." Jon said, looking up at the snow covered trees. "My alliance is here, it lays with Rickon, Sansa, and Arya, and the house of the man who raised me. Even though we may not share direct blood."

"You are loyal, perhaps to a fault, m'lord."

Jon looked over at him, an ironic look on his face.

"And what are you, then, if not loyal?" Jon asked. Davos laughed.

"We both suffer from the effects of our character, then." Davos said. "So here I am, freezing my balls off, back to swear my hand to another king." he held it up. "What's left of the hand, anyhow."

"I'm no king." Jon said.

"Then you are as blind as you are loyal." Davos said. He glanced over his shoulder, at the troops marching behind them. "The North has risen again, and it's completely your doing, m'lord."

This struck Jon, and he felt a deep gratitude. He said nothing more, but instead turned his sights to the road ahead. They were nearly home.

* * *

From the south, Littlefinger, with the queen's support, had rallied Robin (it was not a challenge) to allow himself, and a small command of 200 men, to act as marshalls on behalf of the Queen. There was no longer a tie between House Arryn and House Stark, that had been officially severed with the death of Lysa, and unofficially when he'd given Sansa to the Bolton's. House Arryn's allegiance simply made a sharp turn, and they were now loyalists to House Lannister. He told Robin that the house should turn towards the power, to assure their success in continuing as a House of Westeros. There was not ample power in the North. There were brutes, an army led by a bastard, a child on the seat of Winterfell. In Kings Landing, Cersei held the wealth, she held a fearsome army, and the loyalty of the people had been won in fear. But to Littlefinger, fear equated power, in this case.

Sansa had betrayed him, he thought, in some way. He'd saved her life, he'd returned her to her home. And then, with no loyalty to him, or even thanks, she'd disrespected him at Lord Manderly's seat, setting that brute to protect her. She was a naive, childish girl. He would get his revenge.

If he succeeded, if Sansa Stark was delivered to the Queen, Cersei would reward him handsomely. A seat on the small council again. Perhaps a Lannister cousin to marry Robin to, to assure the strength of both houses.

So they made their way south, Littlefinger, acting as Lord Protector, would aid in the command of the small forces, and the arrest of Sansa and Jon. Cersei had made it clear, however, she cared not for the bastard child of Ned Stark, he could do with him what he wanted. She insisted on Sansa, though. She would pay for her crimes against the crown, for the murder of Jofferey.

The decree was simple. Surrender Jon and Sansa without a fight, and no harm would come to them. If they resisted, Littlefinger was to retreat, and call for more men. If it was war they wanted, over a bastard and a used up girl, it was war they would get.

It was not as though she was asking for Rickon. He could remain the head of house, Cersei could care less. The North was better off running itself, and if the savages in the icy tundra wished to lay their arms to a child, why should she care? They'd all be frozen in a year's time.

Jon and Sansa, however, had broken the laws of men, and as acting Queen, protector of the realm, it was her duty to provide justice to broken laws. Especially when it involved such a House. She would make it clear she wouldn't stand for that. Then, maybe, the people would believe she'd never been involved with Jaime. They'd see their misunderstanding, and they'd be ashamed to have believed such a rumor. Cersei couldn't have, not when she was so dedicated now, to keeping the moral standard as high as possible. It was clear she'd been working for this all along. She was _protecting_ them, they would see it all then.

So Littlefinger head North. He had no doubt in his mind the Manderly forces would happily step aside for him. It was not as though the castle was kept only by Stark men. These were from House Manderly, and they'd been ordered there by their Lord, and their Lord still answered to the Iron Throne. So, they must as well.

Littlefinger couldn't stop grinning.

* * *

The week came to an end. The night before the army was to return, Sansa ordered every man atop the wall to announce the moment they saw banners in the distance.

Jon had left before the rest of the army, from camp. He hadn't been able to sleep, not a wink. They were all so close again, and it felt like it couldn't wait. He woke ten of his closest men, including Davos, and rallied them to arrive early, to leave in the middle of the night. He made up a story about wanting to be sure the barracks were ready for the rest of the army, that everything would be perfect for the weary army, but Davos saw a glimmer in his eye, and knew this was a falsehood.

They arrived at the gates of Winterfell even before dawn broke. As they rode upon it, Jon saw as the men stood, about to raise the alarm, announce their arrival. He ordered them all to stop, that he would announce himself. Not to wake anyone, let him.

The guards at the gate gave him appreciative, knowing smiles, as they nodded, and returned to their posts.

Jon dismounted in the courtyard, and turned to the other men.

"Take your leave gentlemen. Get a few hours rest, and we'll check on the state of the barracks in a bit."

They all gave their thanks, dismounted, and found their way to the guardhouse.

Jon hurried up the stairs, around the corner, Ghost at his heels. He looked at the hallway, considering whichever door he wanted to go in first.

It wasn't a hard decision.

He opened the door quietly, and stepped into the darkness of the room. The fire, glowed just in embers. He crossed to it, silently, and set another log on. He removed some of his outer layers. The room was warm, small, cozy.

He glanced at her, sleeping soundly. In the near 2 months he'd been gone, her hair had grown out. It was past her shoulders again, and spilling all over the pillow, loose. It had taken so much longer than he'd originally expected, and now, the reunion was that much more gratifying.

The room was different, he noticed, as the logs caught, and more light danced across the walls. Stark Banners hung from the walls instead of them being blank stone. There was a new quilt on the bed, in shimmery grey velvet, painstakingly embroidered by Sansa, he was sure. He knew her hand, now.

He stepped forward, inspecting this quilt carefully. All over the quilt were intricately detailed scenes. He recognized small figures, pictures of himself, of his father. Memories they had together, from their childhood. Rob and him, in the courtyard, swords meeting, Bran and Rickon watching. Arya, in front of the Twins, holding the head of someone. The castle, along the bottom, hung with Stark banners. The Wall, where he saw himself, atop it, looking over. In the center, a portrait of the family now. The wolves. He was taken aback. His stomach clenched up, and he was overtaken with emotion. It must have been all she worked on, the entirety of the time he was gone.

He stepped forward, closer to her. He hungrily drank in the sight of her, something he'd been aching for since the moment they'd left.

He finally crouched beside her. He took his gloves off, set them on the bed. He moved his hand to her face, and cupped her cheek, relishing the warmth of her skin.

Her eyes flew open, and she gasped, startled. He waited, as she focused on him, and then she made a cry of surprise. She lunged at him, throwing her arms around his neck. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding in her ears. He stood, lifting her as he did, and turning, so he was sat beside her on the bed.

She moved away, inspecting his face.

"Are you alright, are you hurt? Are you alright?"

"I'm alright, Sansa." he said, his voice low. "We're fine, everything went smoothly."

She nodded, her eyes crinkling into a smile of relief. Tears sprung up behind them. Her eyes flitted over every detail of his face, remembering it, adoring it.

"What is this?" he finally asked, touching the quilt.

"Ohh." She sighed. "Well, it was supposed to be a surprise." she said. "I worked on it a bit before you left, too, and then nearly any spare time I had while you were gone, it was all I did."

"It's us?" he asked, and she nodded.

"All of our stories, yes." Sansa said, and her cheeks pinkened. "I know it's a bit silly, but after they got rid of everything, I thought we needed some new heirlooms-"

He interrupted her by taking her face, and kissing her gently. She sighed, knotting her hands in his hair.

"I missed you." she whispered as soon as he pulled away. He pressed her forehead against hers, watching her eyes.

"I'm never leaving again." he said, humor in his voice.

She pulled the quilt away.

"Sleep, with me, a bit." she said softly.

He gladly sunk into the bed beside her, and she rolled atop him, laying her chin on his chest, smiling at him.

"Welcome home." she said.

Jon thought he'd never been happier than he was in that moment.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually rewrote this chapter completely. I published, briefly, another chapter 21 earlier, but I really didn't like it, and I ended up just trashing the whole thing, and throwing it out, starting from scratch. If anyone saw that version, I apologize, and hope this is a much better version! XXxX

In the late morning, Arya was walking atop the breezeway, balancing on the edge of the wall like Bran had used to. She wore a thick wool, and pants, despite her sister trying to convince her to trade them in for skirts. Beside her, walking on the wooden planks of the hallway, was Nymeria, trotting along contentedly.

Arya turned, looking over the misty rolling hills, snow patched along the grass. She sighed, tucking a loose strand from her braid behind her ear.

She turned north, looking towards the Kingsroad in the distance. She swallowed, waiting.

Then she saw it appear. The Stark Banner, flapping in the wind. Her stomach flipped over in excitement.

She jumped down, next to Nymeria, and without missing a beat, ran down the breezeway, around a corner, and down a set of stairs. She hurried to the hall where the solar for the family was. She found Rickon's door, and banged on it.

"They're back! He's back!" she cried, giggling.

Beside Rickon's room, was Sansa's, and Arya's shouting and banging woke Jon. He sat up, listening, a smile on his face. A moment later, he heard scrambling.

"They're here?" he heard Rickon ask.

"The banners are approaching just over the Kingsroad!"' Arya said.

Arya and Rickon's eyes met, and they both grinned.

"Sansa." Rickon said.

The brother and sister scrambled down a ways, to Sansa's door. Jon smirked wider, shaking Sansa awake.

She sat up, confused, hearing both Arya and Rickon pounding and calling her name.

"They don't know I'm here." Jon whispered.

Sansa smiled, and pulled herself out of bed. She put her finger to her lips, and walked to the door, opening it a crack.

" _What?"_ she hissed, playing at being out-of-sorts.

"Jon's home!" Arya said. "Come, get dressed, we can ride out and meet him."

Sansa smiled, nodding.

"I'll meet you in the courtyard." she said. She shut the door. She went to the wardrobe, pulling on a dress. "Come down in a few minutes, I'll make sure their backs are turned."

Jon laughed. "You've become more lighthearted in my absence, Lady Stark."

"It's amazing what not being a prisoner can do to a woman." she said dryly. She smirked at him a final time, before disappearing out of the door.

After a few minutes, Jon stood, still dressed, and called Ghost to his heel. Ghost gave him a somewhat withering look, and Jon laughed.

"I know it's a bit ridiculous." he said to the wolf. "But we need to humor them. They need it."

Ghost sniffed, and nudged his head against Jon's waist.

Jon opened the door, and walked down the hallway. He looked through the openings of the breezeway, down into the courtyard, where Sansa was talking to Arya and Rickon, assuring their backs be turned towards the gate. Jon went down the staircase, and wound back, so he could approach them from behind.

Jon crept up behind Arya, as Sansa was continuing on about the plans for the evening, and grabbed her hips as he shouted into her ear. She screamed, spinning, and Rickon did as well.

She looked up at him, and then half laughed, half screamed, and jumped onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck. When she pulled away, she smacked him on the chest.

"You ass." she said. Rickon stepped forward, giving Jon a tight hug, clapping him on the back. Sansa was laughing, delighted, as she watched the entire scene. Arya whipped around to her.

"You knew." she said, mock anger thick in her voice. She narrowed her eyes. Sansa shrieked, as Arya lunged for her, reaching for the fabric on her dress. Sansa ran, through the mud, slipping a bit as she rounded a cart, Arya on her tail.

Arya caught an angle, and tripped, sprawling into the mud, dirtying her front. She made a noise of disgust, pulling herself up so she was sitting. Sansa had stopped when she fell.

"Arya, are you alright?" she rushed over, making to help her up. Arya took a handful of the mud, and flung it at her sister. It splattered down her front, and Sansa screamed. Arya and Rickon dissolved into peals of giggling.

" _Arya!_ " Sansa cried, both amused and also heavily annoyed.

"Sister..." Arya began, in between her bouts of laughter. "I only wanted us to match."

Sansa's lips curled into a smile, despite wanting to be put off by it all.

Jon walked over, and pulled Arya up.

"Enough horseplay." he said, gently. "Both of you, go get cleaned up. We can break our fast after Rickon and I go to the barracks, to ensure they're prepared."

"They are." Rickon said. "They've been ready for a week. Fully stocked on linens, hot water, rations, clean weapons."

Jon looked at him, surprised.

"You left me in charge, did you think I'd let it all go to shit?" Rickon said, but he was beaming with pride.

"Sansa helped you?" Jon asked, and Rickon shrugged.

"Maybe a little."

"Well, in that case, we can skip to the part where I go over the new and agreed upon regulations of the North." Jon said. "Let me get to my horse, the book is in the sack."

Rickon followed him towards the stables.

"Are we going to officially claim our independence?" Rickon asked. Jon looked at him, surprised. "I mean, I know, normally, the south doesn't bother with us much anyways."

"Now that Arya took the Twins, and House Manderly holds it for House Stark, there's no way any army from the South can take the North by land." Jon said thoughtfully. "I suppose..."

"What about by sea?"

"I doubt it." Jon said. "Manderly holds the port as well, and every other port town is now outfitted with Stark soldiers, to assure the loyalty to our house."

"Good." Rickon said. They reached the stables, and Jon took his pack hanging from the hook, and pulled out a leather bound book.

When they returned to the Courtyard, the army was near to the village. Jon found the commanding officer of the castle watch, and told him that once the army approached, they were to take leave, and eat and rest, as the journey had been long. He and Rickon went to the great hall, to eat, and Jon flipped over the notes with Rickon. He explained the agreed upon laws he'd discussed with each house. Following the incident at Deepwoode Motte, the punishment for rapers had been changed from the choice between castration and the wall, to simply death or the wall. Jon figured this would assure more men to be sent to the wall, to aid the men there. Not to mention, this would keep wildlings, perhaps, for doing it at all.

He also went over the new trade agreements, explaining them in detail, not noticing that Rickon's eyes had become glazed over with boredom.

"Oi." Jon finally said, and Rickon snapped his head towards Jon.

"Yes, taxes." Rickon said, and Jon gave him a withering look.

"We'll talk about it once you're fed." Jon said, as the kitchen doors opened, and plates of food were brought out. At the other end of the hall, Sansa walked in, trailed by Arya and Nymeria.

The family ate, listening mostly to Jon tell them stories of the campaign. They ended up sitting around, plates clean, still enraptured with his tales, an hour later.

"Alright." Jon sighed. "What have I missed here?"

"Oi, House Tallhart came to propose to me." Arya laughed, remembering.

"What?" Jon looked surprised. Arya looked at Sansa, expectantly.

"He already knew about that, I think." Sansa said. "Not much else really happened, other than the decor-"

"Wait, hang on." Jon held up his hand. "Who proposed?"

"The nephew of Lady Tallhart." Arya said. "Well, I 'spect it was more the Lady doing the proposing."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Jon looked at both Sansa and Arya.

"I sent you a raven." Sansa said, raising a brow.

"I didn't get one. When was this?"

"A couple weeks ago, now." Arya said.

"I never got a raven, are you sure-"

" _Yes_ I'm sure." Sansa said, but panic was budding in her chest. "Are you sure someone else in the battalion didn't receive it by accident?"

Jon shook his head once.

"Well, it was just correspondence about a marriage proposal." Arya said, waving her hand, uninterested. "Big help that'll be to any spies."

Sansa swallowed, desperately trying to recall the contents of the letter. She felt Jon's eyes on her, but gave him a weak, reassuring smile.

"She's right." she said softly, not wanting him to worry.

Jon felt she was hiding something, but didn't make mention of it.

"Arya." Jon said, turning to her. She looked up. "How is the training going?"

"It's fun." she grinned. "Your men are a bit sloppy, but I 'spect it's from the heavy sword wielding."

"But you're teaching them all the secrets?" Jon said, grinning. She nodded, and stood.

"Speaking of that, I thought you could come see?" she said, waiting, excited.

"Yeah, I will." Jon said. "Give me a minute to change out of these clothes, I've been in them for a while."

"Right." Arya said, wrinkling her nose. She swatted at Rickon's ear. "You coming too?"

Rickon looked at Jon, who nodded.

"Yes!" Rickon said, jumping up.

"But _tonight_ we need to talk, alright?" Jon called as Rickon ran after Arya.

As soon as they were out of the hall, Jon turned to Sansa.

"What?" he asked. "What else was in the letter?"

"Jon, it probably just got lost. Ravens aren't a foolproof delivery system."

"Sansa." He said, making her meet his eyes.

She sighed, pressing her palms against her face.

"If someone found the letter." she began, speaking slowly. "They may gather that you and I are...closer than-"

"Oh." he said, considering this. "And that would imply-"

"Nothing good, Jon." she whispered.

"Because if they think we're related," Jon sighed. "And then to disprove it we'd have to tell them I'm Targaryen."

Sansa swore, and Jon laughed, despite himself.

"We don't know if anything is going to happen." Sansa said. "Perhaps it really was lost."

She looked at him, and saw the fear in his eyes.

"Gods, Jon, I'm so sorry, I'm so naive." she whispered.

He leaned forward, kissing her forehead. "It would have happened eventually, Sansa." he said.

With that, he stood, and left.

* * *

Sansa tried to shake the nerves from the possibility that their secret had come out. She felt foolish, regretful, and ashamed, constantly. She tried to throw herself back into the duties of the household, but she was distracted often, and couldn't usually stay on task. She felt like she was just waiting for some impending doom. Or perhaps that's how she would always exist. Perhaps it was a side effect of being a Lady of a great House. You never knew peace.

Jon spent most of his time with either Rickon or Arya. Arya, to help train the men. They needed to be as competent as possible, as the impending threat of the Winter that was coming was nearly around the corner. Otherwise, he was working with Rickon, and making sure Rickon knew the ins and outs of running both an army and a household. Sansa was able to teach Rickon about court, and the politics therein. Together, as they advised, they only grew stronger in their own abilities.

At night, after they ate dinner in the great hall, they all gathered around the hearth. They sometimes spoke about business, or reminisced about the family passed.

One evening, a week and a half after the return of the army, a raven arrived, and a steward brought the news to the sitting room.

"House Cerwyn." Jon said, noting the sigil on the stamp as he took it.

He scanned it, and swallowed. He handed Sansa the letter.

"I think we know who intercepted us." he said.

"What is it?" Rickon asked, standing from his place on the floor next to ShaggyDog, and walking to the settee Sansa was on.

"House Arryn is marching North, on the Kingsroad." Sansa said. "They passed Castle Cerwyn without a word, and Lord Cerwyn thought it was worth mentioning."

"Good man." Jon said softly. "Only a few hundred men, though."

"Maybe he just wants to council with us." Rickon said. "Or offer us men, to gain favor."

Jon gave him a sad look.

"Maybe." He said.

"I don't want to back to fighting." Rickon said, his voice heavy.

"It won't be much of a fight, Rickon." Jon said. Rickon sat beside Jon, and Jon gave him a reassuring shoulder squeeze. "It will just be an unnecessary one."

"Why do you think he's coming?" Arya asked.

"We don't know for sure." Sansa said. "But we have a feeling it was he who intercepted the raven I sent to Jon."

"Why would that matter?" Arya asked. She studied Sansa's face, and then her brows shot up. She made a face.

"Right." she said softly.

"It'll be fine." Jon said, looking at them all. "Hopefully we can finally have Littlefinger's head on a spike."

"Excellent." Arya said, grinning.

Sansa swallowed. She reached for Jon's hand, and he took it, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

"Don't worry." he said to her, again. She nodded.

But it was easier said than done.


	22. Chapter 22

Jon went the next day to rally the men of the battalion. He had the forces line up, just outside the gates, so he could address them all at once. They stood in formation, as Jon pulled himself onto his mount.

"There is a threat to this house on it's way, gentlemen." he began, leading the horse back and fourth along the front line of men. "Petyr Baelish, who is acting as Lord Protector for House Arryn, is coming with forces to arrest myself and Lady Sansa. We think he may be acting on behalf of the Lannister Queen Cersei."

Some of the men exchanged surprised looks. Some cried out in anger at the name Cersei. The Northeners had firmly turned against them after the murder of Ned Stark.

"We, however, outnumber his men 5 to 1, so if he even decides to pursue a battle, we know it won't be long, will it?"

From the landing above the gates, Sansa had perched on the wall, looking down at the men, watching Jon speak to them, his voice loud, clear, and strong. Her chest swelled with pride as she listened.

"Do we intend to bow to this intruder, no matter what news he may bring?" Jon asked, and in unison, the army responded with a loud 'no!'.

"Who do we answer to, then? If not the queen, where does your loyalty lie?"

"Stark!" the battalion cried out, louder now. Then, began the chants.

Sansa looked down at the sea of men, who filled the expanse of field as far as she could see. As the chant got louder, the men near the back joined in, and soon, there was a booming cacophony of her name being shouted up at the skies, challenging the Gods, the south, near anyone who would listen.

She felt her breath catch, as her chest welled with pure emotion. She hadn't ever felt power like this. That there were nearly 3,000 men, standing in that field, willing to die for her and her family.

Rickon heard the chanting, and left his chambers, going to the top level of halls, to join Sansa on the landing, over looking the men. He walked up to her without a word, staring down at them beside her, beaming.

"Is this how Robb felt, when he rallied the north?" he asked, looking at her. She took his hand.

"I'd imagine." she said.

Jon turned his horse around, and looked up at the castle, spotting Rickon and Sansa. Sansa and Jon's eyes met, and she saw a glimmer of a grin around his mouth.

He turned back to the men, and held his hand up, silencing them.

"When Lord Petyr Baelish marches across that hill there in the coming days-" Jon pointed in the distance, south, towards the hill where the Kingsroad dipped low. "Shall we give him the welcome he deserves?"

The crowd broke into cheers, and haphazardly re-ignited the Stark chant. After a few moments of this, Jon held his hand up again.

"Tonight rest well, fill your bellies, for tomorrow, we may be declaring a war." he said.

And with that, he turned around again, and led his horse back through the castle gates.

* * *

Sansa was shaking with adrenaline. She hurried down the stairs, trying to get to Jon. He was in the council chambers, she figured, meeting with the head officers of the army, to go over plans of action.

She knocked for a moment, and then opened the chamber. To her surprise, he was alone. He was pouring over a book of maps, analyzing the geography of the area surrounding Winterfell.

"I suspect you heard, then?" he asked, looking at her, her eyes glowing. She nodded, and wordlessly shut the door behind her, leaning against it. He turned back down to the map, flipping a page over.

He heard her latch the door, and looked up in surprise.

"I don't know how you can sit still." she said, her voice soft. She walked to the desk, resting her fingertips on the edge of it. "You rally an army to destroy your enemies, and return to your chambers and to your books, like it's something you do everyday."

She casually untied her cloak, and set it on the chair in front of the desk.

"It wasn't my name they called, m'lady."

She bent over the desk, and closed the book.

"It will be." she said, her voice nearly a whisper.

"How do you figure that?" Jon asked, arching a brow.

She stood up straight, and walked around the desk. He stood, knowing exactly what she had in mind. She leaned against the edge of the desk, and then pulled herself onto it, so she was sitting. Jon put his hands on either side of her, leaning so close their noses were nearly touching.

"Did you ever think you were going to find a wife?" she arched her brow. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

"No." he said, after a pause. "Never."

"But did you want one?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

He swallowed.

"I did." he said finally, his voice slightly hoarse.

She leaned forward, so her lips hovered beside his ear.

"Do you still?" she said. Chills went down his spine as her breath danced across his skin. "Lord Commander Stark?" she offered.

He moved quickly, taking her waist with one hand, moving her against his chest. He ravenously kissed at her mouth, and to his surprise, she responded with the same desperate enthusiasm. He grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back, and kissed hungrily down her neck to her bosom. He started to, without removing his mouth from her skin, untying the laces at the back of her dress. They were tied tight, and after struggling for a moment, he reached for the knife at his belt. Not once leaving her flesh untouched, he unsheathed the dagger, and with one quick movement, sliced through the ties at the back of her dress.

She gasped, surprised at the suddenness of the cold air at her skin. Jon busied himself with her breasts, and she leaned back, her back arching, and sighed, letting herself dissolve into the pleasure of it. She shut her eyes, and was surprised at how desperate she felt after seeing him before her army, rallying them for her. It had ignited something inside her, an attraction to the power he had. She felt somewhat depraved, but the act had become so satisfying, she hardly cared.

She pawed at the front of his pants, unbuckling them. She'd succeeded in awakening him, and she hurriedly pulled up the skirts of her dress. With his thumb, he moved her small clothes to the side, and felt her slickness, pleasantly surprised at how quickly she'd moistened for him. He filled her then, sinking inside her as deep as he could. She cried out, and then leaned forward, pressing her mouth on his shoulder, muffling any noises. He held her back, pushing in and out, losing himself for a moment in the ecstasy of it.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. He felt Sansa pause, but he didn't stop, he only continued, faster and harder.

"Lord Commander?" a voice said on the other side of the door.

He put his fingers to his lips, meeting Sansa's eyes. They continued, silently, as there was another knock on the door. Sansa made a sudden gasp, and Jon clamped his hand on her mouth. Their eyes met, and Jon was surprised to see her eyes aglow, nearly smiling. They heard the footsteps disappear, and he lifted his hand away. Sansa was near on the edge, now, and was instinctively tightening from the coming force of it. Jon grabbed the small of her back, and then the back of her neck, pulling her as close as he could as he felt her body buckle from the orgasm. She went limp after she finished, relaxing against him, still mewling quietly as he continued, nearly reaching his own breaking point. He bit down on her shoulder as he finished, groaning, his body shuddering as he released inside of her.

He didn't pull away for a moment, but pressed his forehead against hers. They both gasped for air together, trying to gather themselves. When their eyes met, they both smiled, releasing little whispers of laughter. She gripped the front of his vest, tightening her fists there.

"So, how about it then?" she asked, arching a brow.

"It'd be hard to say no after that, wouldn't it?" he asked, and she smiled.

"That was the plan." she said, kissing him again.

He stepped back, and looked at the dress he'd ruined laying in scraps around Sansa.

"I hope you weren't overly fond of this one." he sighed, picking up a piece and letting it fall back on the desk. She smiled, and ties the sleeves around her waist, her chest still bare. She walked to the front of the desk, picking up her heavy white cloak, and securing it tightly around her neck.

"Nobody will know." she said. He smiled at her.

"Tonight, in the godswood?" he asked. Her cheeks flushed, and her stomach dipped slightly from excitement.

"Your secret will be out, my Lord." she said. "We don't have to, not yet."

"If you want to wait, we shall." he said.

She bit on her lip.

"I might still technically be in mourning." she sighed. "I'm not sure I can remarry before that ends."

"Who cares? Who will challenge us?"

She considered this.

"Are _you_ sure?" she asked, scrutinizing him.

"There's not a doubt in my mind."

She pulled her cloak around herself, tighter. She rolled this idea around in her head, the chance of being married to someone she actually loved, to be the princess in the story books, married to the brave knight.

"Then we shall." she said softly. "Tonight. Just us, and someone to officiate. Don't let it distract you, today, though. I know you have work today."

He sighed, looking down at the closed book.

"I'll try."

And with that, she left the room, to go dress into something less torn.

* * *

The night was clear, the first clear sky they'd had in a long while. Sansa left her room near midnight, her breath turning to smoke before her face. She'd left her hair loose, how Jon preferred it, and had her fine white cloak over a pale pink dress. She pulled the hood over her hair, keeping the chill off her cheeks.

She walked down the breezeway quietly, and paused in the courtyard to stare up at the night sky. The stars twinkled merrily, and she could hear, faintly in the distance, the calls of the men in the barracks, laughing and singing.

There was nobody to give her away, because she didn't want anybody. She was to give herself, because for once, this would be her choice. She felt incredibly calm, which wasn't how she was expecting to feel.

They would tell Rickon and Arya of the marriage the next day, after it was done. Jon wanted to announce it properly, along with the fact that he wasn't of direct Stark lineage, but instead half Targaryen, but Sansa still was nervous about this. She felt if they told the world of his heritage, it wouldn't be long before Cersei began to make attempts on his life, as he had a stronger claim to the Iron Throne than she.

She entered the Godswood, and Ghost appeared from between the thicket of trees. She smiled, reaching out for his face, stroking his muzzle.

"I suppose you could give me away, then." she whispered, and he nuzzled her shoulder. She took his collar with her hand, and led him towards the Weirwood tree. There were a few lanterns, hanging from branches, and Jon stood, beside Lord Davvos. Sansa smiled at this choice of officiant, there wasn't too many people Jon trusted more than he did Davvos. She inclined her head at him, suddenly too excited to speak. She took a breath.

Jon knew that Sansa was beautiful, but he hadn't seen her ever look as angelic as she did then. Her hair fell loose in soft waves, spilling out from her hood, her her cheeks and eyes glowed in the dull light of the lanterns. She looked content, and calm, when mostly she looked anxious. She walked in through the trees, her hand on Ghost.

Jon relished in the implausibility of the situation. So much had happened to lead them to this point, this moment. He never thought he'd ever be here, not since he'd made the decision to leave Winterfell to join the watch. He thought he'd live and die alone.

But then she was there, taking his hand, ushering him back into reality.

"You're alright?" she asked softly.

He nodded.

The ceremony was quick, and then it was done. Jon cloaked her, and they stood.

"Do you feel different?" Davvos asked, closing the book. Jon and Sansa exchanged looks, and both laughed, happy for the break in tension.

"Not even a little." Sansa sighed, stroking Jon's cheek.

"Well, it's done, in the matter of the Old Gods." Davvos said. "Try and let anyone challenge you now."

Jon took Sansa's hand, and then rested his other on the back of Ghost.

"Do you wish we had some sort of feast to attend, or a grand reception?" he asked, worried Sansa might be put-off by the simplicity of the ceremony. She shook her head, grinning from ear to ear. They walked through the trees, Davvos lingering a distance back, giving the new couple privacy.

"I don't think so." she said softly. "I think we have the rest of our lives to celebrate, but tonight is the only night we'll be newlyweds."

"You're much better at coming up with pretty sentiments than I am." Jon said, and she laughed.

"I've read more silly books than you." she said, and he rolled his eyes.

In Jon's room, Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, watching Jon carefully as he undressed.

"Why did you decide to do this?" Jon asked, looking up at her suddenly.

"What?" she asked, smiling. "Marry you?"

He nodded.

She considered the question for a moment, and then smiled only wider.

"Because when you told me, months ago, now I could marry whoever I liked, I tried to picture who I'd end up with, or who I'd end up choosing." she said, speaking slowly. "And no matter how I spun it, I couldn't see myself with anyone else but you. It didn't make sense. Because of all the emboldened and fearless knights of the North, South, even of Essos, of all the Knights who knew about me, and there were plenty- Ramsay did not hide our union, you were the only person in the entire world who bothered to come for me. I couldn't settle for any other man."

She met his eyes, and was surprised at how touched he looked.

"It had to be you." she whispered.

He stood, and walked over to her. Then, he knelt before her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, giggling.

"Thanking you." he said. "Making sure you know how much I appreciate you. Choosing me."


	23. Chapter 23

Horns were blown at first light. Jon sat up, with a gasp, startling Sansa awake as he did. She reached for his hand, squeezing it, as he breathed heavily. She stroked the back of his fist, gently, waiting for him to calm.

"You're alright?" she asked after a moment. He nodded, clearing his throat.

"Nightmares." he said. Ghost was standing, waiting at the door, impatient. Horns meant oncoming battle, and Ghost had become used to readying himself at the sound of it.

She could tell his mind was in another place. That the morning after, despite what she wanted, could not be a time for distraction. She climbed out of bed, wordlessly, and went to dress in a thick red dress, deeply wine colored. The color of blood.

"I'm going to speak to Rickon and Arya." she said, looking back over her shoulder at Jon. She paused, realizing he was still in bed, still distraught.

She crossed the room, and sat on the bed beside him.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice soft.

"I dreamt-" he began, and then swallowed. He met her eyes. "I dreamt I died again."

She felt her blood rush cold. She put a hand to his face.

"You're not going to." she said.

"Any man can die, Sansa." he said, his voice hollow.

"Jon." she said, allowing for her voice to grow more stern. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You can't allow a dream to shake your confidence."

He shut his eyes, absorbing this.

"We are approaching him with near four thousand men." she said. "You and I, side by side, one of the strongest unions in recent history, he'll be sorry to find out."

He kept his eyes closed, listening.

"A princess of Winterfell, and a woman he lusted after, beside the commander of one of the larges-"

"What?" Jon asked, his eyes popping open. She went still. She mentally searched her memory, and realized, even after all this time, she hadn't told Jon about Littlefinger's desire for her. He only knew of him taking her from Kings Landing, and then delivering her right back into the hands of another enemy. She'd omitted the details of this particularity, sensing he was angry enough about Ramsay, he didn't need to know about the sins of some other irrelevant and weak man. And since the first few nights on the run, they hadn't revisited the past in much detail. She herself had nearly forgotten.

"Sansa, what did you just say?" he said, and she recognized the tone his voice was taking. Low, angry, protective.

"Littlefinger...wanted me. He tried, a few times-" she swallowed back the coming tears. Since Ramsay, what Littlefinger had done paled in comparison, but now that she recalled it, it brought back familiar emotions - how violated she'd felt.

"You're just telling me this now?" he asked.

"It's irrelevant." she said, forcing her emotions down.

"No." he said. He took her hand in his. "It's not." He sighed, and used his free hand to push his hair from his face. "Gods, I thought I wanted to kill him enough already _before._ "

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." she said. "I didn't want you...more upset than you already were, Jon. You tend to let your emotions-"

"Oi." he said, letting her hand fall. "I _know_ I do. Where you are cautious, I am reckless."

"It's why we work so well together." she whispered, and then leaned forward, kissing him on the forehead. She pressed her nose against his, meeting his eyes. "You said yourself, if there's a battle, it will be easily won."

"Aye." he said.

She stood again.

"I'll go tell my siblings the happy news." she said, her voice light. "I'll see you this afternoon."

He sighed, nodding.

* * *

Both Rickon and Arya took the news in equally unsurprised manners.

"It was bound to happen eventually, wasn't it?" Arya asked, looking quite bored, polishing Needle at the table in the Great Hall.

"We all knew you fancied eachother, and it's quite a smart political match, isn't it?" Rickon asked, and then looked quite pleased with himself for using such apt terminology. His sister's teaching wasn't going unnoticed, and he was proud to show her that. "I suppose it works out quite well!"

"Hooray." Arya said, waving a free hand in the air sarcastically. Sansa sighed.

"The forces leave within the hour. Rickon, you're to stay here." Sansa said, glad to change the subject.

Rickon made a loud noise of protest, and Sansa gave him a look.

"I'm not risking your life, Rickon." she said. "You know as well as anyone you're the strongest asset we have."

"Until you and Jon start having babies." Rickon said, clearly annoyed he wasn't accompanying the army, and aiming to lash out at Sansa, who'd made the call.

"How do you figure-" she began, and then held her hand up, not having the patience to humor his adolescent griping.

"I'm going, though, right?" Arya asked, looking excited.

"Yes." Sansa said. "That's the plan."

"I _love_ the plan." Arya said, wiggling her eyebrows at Rickon.

"Will you at least let me behead him?" Rickon whined. Sansa smiled.

"If he manages to get back to Winterfell without Jon doing it first." She said. "Arya, come on, are you ready?"

Arya hopped up, putting the sword in her sheath at her hip.

"Are you wearing that?" Arya said, arching a brow at the deep red dress Sansa wore. "Seems a bit obvious if you're hiding under the radar."

"I'll have a cloak on over it."

They exchanged knowing looks. Arya giggled.

"You're starting to come around to the killing, aren't you?" Arya asked, as they walked towards the doors at the far end of the hall.

"I'm coming around to the vengeance." Sansa said. "It is not the sport of it, I enjoy."

"Mmhm." Arya said, side-eyeing her with a coy look.

* * *

Jon and Arya headed the forces. Sansa hadn't wanted her sister at the front line, but both Jon and Arya insisted. Arya, mostly because she wanted to be involved, and Jon, because he thought it would make the house look more unified, since Rickon couldn't be risked. He had explained that even with just 200 men, if they wanted to take a shot with a bow, they certainly could do irreparable damage to the house, if they wanted.

Sansa rode back, cloaked heavily, the hood covering her bright hair. She was behind at least 3 or 4 layers of men. She would appear when she needed to.

The forces marching across the field, south down the Kingsroad, was a surprising amount of noise. The marching made the ground shake, and Sansa felt her entire body humming with adrenaline. As they went up a hill, she looked over her shoulder, at the rows of men behind her. She bit her lip, forcing down a smile. She felt good. She felt powerful.

Through the layers of men, she saw Jon and Arya, ahead, their wolves beside their horses. They were talking back and fourth, and she saw Arya laugh. She marveled at how casual they were behaving. How relaxed they could be.

As they crested the hill, Jon held his hand up. The men stopped, still hidden by the angle of the small mount.

Below them, he saw the small army, Littlefinger at it's front. He thought of the bow he had on his horse. He could make this so quick. But he swallowed this desire, and together, with the army hidden just out of sight, they rode down the hill.

Sansa rode to the front, now, looking up at the hill. She stopped her horse beside Davvos. The entire army lay silent. The hill stretched, curving all the way to the line of trees on either side. The entire forces would be hidden, at first. She gave Davvos a nervous smile.

"It'll be fine, my lady." he said. "Once he sees the men spilling over the hill, I'd be surprised if he didn't go running for his life."

"He won't escape with it." Sansa said, her voice flat.

Jon and Arya waited, as the Arryn forces grew closer. Littlefinger urged his horse faster, as though he was impatient to meet with them.

He slowed about 20 paces from Jon and Arya. Behind him, a small guard hurried to catch up. Petyr wore a smug look, and a cape with an Arryn sigil.

"You call upon us with no forewarning?" Arya said. "And you march upon our lands with a formidable army, Lord Baelish. This could be construed as an act of war. Are we not allies?"

"I'm afraid I come with a grim duty." Baelish said. Then, he turned to Jon. "How happy you must be, Lord Snow, to gain another Stark, alive, for your collection."

Jon did not reply.

"Again, I ask you, why are you here?" Arya said.

From his coat, Littlefinger produced a parchment, folded neatly.

"I come on order of the Queen." he said. He handed it to a guard, who took it, and rode forward to give to Jon. The horse of the Arryn guard startled when Ghost growled menacingly at him.

"Down." Jon said softly, taking the letter from the guard's hand, who promptly retreated back to Littlefinger.

Jon read over the letter. It was exactly as they'd suspected. A warrant for the arrest of him and Sansa, on the grounds of unnatural affections. It was also noted, at the bottom, that Sansa was wanted for questioning regarding the death of King Joffery. Jon handed the letter to Arya, who also read it.

She laughed, and promptly tore the letter in half, letting the pieces flutter to the ground.

"It's good you want to arrest Sansa." she said. "She was just behind us."

Petyr looked confused, his brow knitting together.

Arya nodded at Nymeria, who turned round, and ran back up the hill they'd come down.

Sansa saw the wolf appear at the top of the hill. She looked to Davvos, who raised his hand, and waved it forward. With that, the army began moving again. They crested the hill, Sansa removing her hood, and coming at the head of a line of near 100 men. And then, behind her, the men began to spill over, and then encircle the Arryn army, from every angle. She rode down, and stopped beside Jon.

Littlefinger's mouth popped open, slightly, as the forces kept coming, and coming. Not only were they the Manderly men, but he saw banners from houses all over the North, in every color and size.

"What was it?" Sansa asked, looking to Jon.

"A warrant for our arrest." he said. "Signed by Queen Cersei."

"We don't answer to the Queen." Sansa said to Littlefinger.

"If I'm not mistaken, Eddard Stark knelt for Robert Baratheon. As did your entire family." Petyr said.

"King Robert did not murder my father." Sansa said. "Cersei did. The North remembers, Lord Baelish."

"I'm acting as Lord Protector, and new Warden of the North-"

"No." Jon said. "You're leaving."

Petyr looked around at the men surrounding them, now.

"You've broken a law of The Old Gods, and the new!" Petyr said, loud enough for the men closest to hear. "A law of decency. If your men knew, they would probably be just as outraged as the queen."

"Which law is that?" Sansa asked, narrowing her eyes, daring him to say it.

"My lady, you've entered into an unnatural relationship, communion, and affection with your brother, by blood!" he shouted, again, theatrically, so the men could hear.

Sansa smirked, and looked at Jon.

"Rickon?" she asked, looking back at Petyr.

"Don't play me for stupid, Sansa." Petyr said."You know me better than that."

Petyr smirked at how Jon's jaw tightened at this.

"Jon Snow." Petyr said, looking at him.

"His name is Stark, now." Sansa said, urging her horse a bit further. "As it is customary for a Snow to take the name of a highborn lady, in marriage."

Petyr froze, his entire body locked up in surprise, completely blindsided by this.

"And he's not my brother. He's not Eddard Stark's son. He's the child of Lyanna and Rhaegar. I'm sure you've heard the stories of the Tower of Joy. We quite recently learned the truth of his heritage."

Petyr opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"We could have cleared this all up, Littlefinger, had you written, or come alone. Instead you march on my house with an, albeit small, but an army, nonetheless. You realigned with the Lannisters, to exact your petty revenge."

"Sansa." Petyr began, his voice turning from hostile, to gentle, pleading. "I rescued you, from Kings Landing, from the Lannisters. That, if nothing else, could persuade you to grant me-"

" _You_ didn't rescue me." she snapped. "Jon did."

Petyr's mouth shut. Then it formed a thin line.

In one quick movement, Petyr raised his hand, and brought it down, swiftly. From the crowd of soldiers, a single archer fired an arrow.

They all saw it coming. Sansa opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. The arrow struck Jon's chest. The force of it knocked him from his horse. Ghost made a sudden yelp, like he had also been struck.

She dismounted as quick as she could, scrambling to him. She caught Arya's eyes, which were just as wild and frightened as hers were, as she jumped from the horse. She nodded.

Arya looked at Davvos.

"Kill them all." she said, her voice low.

Suddenly, from every angle, it was chaos. Davvos went forward, towards Littlefinger. He was the closest to them, the guards of the Stark forces still many paces behind. But it wasn't long until they were all racing towards the Arryn army.

Sansa fell on the ground, beside Jon. She was sure she'd seen it pierce his heart, sure that she would be looking upon his dead face.

Instead, when she touched him, he groaned. She cried out in relief, brushing his hair away from her face. The arrow had pierced him through, but it had gone through his shoulder.

"You're alright, you're alright." she gasped through her tears. He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut, but he nodded.

"I've...had worse." he managed through clenched teeth. From behind her, she felt Ghost encircling them, creating a shield from the thundering hooves of the soldiers that went by. Sansa made a noise, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Jon sat up, breathing heavily. He began to push himself up with his uninjured arm, but she grabbed onto him.

"No. You're not moving." she said, firmly. He was shaking, she realized, with rage, and his eyes had a darkness to them she had yet to see this close. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Jon." she said his name again, taking his hand, pulling it to her chest. "Look at me."

He blinked at her, and then blinked again.

Then, his sight changed, and he was encircling himself and Sansa, above them, somehow. He felt a low growl, deep in his chest, and a strength he had only experienced once before. He took a breath, smelling the air, and caught scent of him. The odd, pepperminty, unfamiliar smell, and he knew what it was. Who it was.

Sansa glanced at Ghost, who'd locked up, frozen, staring into the chaos of the battle. Then, he moved forward, running, quickly.

Petyr had been knocked off his horse, but cowered underneath the bodies of two of his fallen guards, holding a shield over his head.

Sansa watched with wide eyes as Ghost grabbed hold of a shield on the ground, and tore it away. She caught one last glimpse of Littlefinger, before Ghost lunged into him, going straight for his throat.

Sansa looked back to Jon, whose eyes were closed. She stroked his hair, and then his cheek. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again.

"He's dead." he said, nodding as he said it. He moved, and then groaned again.

"Try and be still, love." Sansa said. Her heart was racing, but he was alright, he was alive.

And Littlefinger wasn't.


	24. Chapter 24

Cersei threw the goblet across the room, at the wall, the deep red wine splashing like blood across the marble.

"If it's war they want, then, so be it." she said through gritted teeth, looking at the steward, who was trembling near the door, holding the news. "Order all lines of trade through White Harbor to be cut off. Anyone sailing into the port to deliver supplies will be killed." she went to the desk, taking a paper out, to write another decree, this one to gather all remaining Lannister forces and begin the journey to the North.

"Your majesty," Qyburn began, who had witnessed the entire scene without saying a word. She looked to him, narrowing her eyes. "Forgive me, but the Lannister forces would be best here, in Kings Landing. They're already having trouble keeping the peace. We'd be welcoming a mutiny, it's too dangerous."

"Then we light them all, again." she said. "Let them try, try and stop me." Her voice was shaking in fury. "The North can not declare an act of war and go unnoticed."

"So cut off their supplies, that is fine." he said. "But sending men..."

She stepped away from the desk, pressing her fingertips against her forehead.

"If you want the girl dead, send someone to kill her, to poison her food, to slice her throat in the privvy chamber. My lady, we cannot afford a war."

Cersei made a noise of anger, but as upset as she was, he was right.

"Find me someone." she said, her voice a thin hiss. "Send a raven to your connections in the North, if you must. Tell them I'll pay 50,000 gold dragons for that girl's head."

"50...thousand, my lady?"

She swallowed, she knew that this was a lot for the amount the Lannisters had left. But she nodded. Some things were more important than money.

"Right away." Qyburn said, leaving the room to write out the order.

* * *

In Winterfell, Sansa hadn't left Jon's side, hardly even to eat, for nearly a week. He slept lots, thanks to the draft the Maester had given him. Sansa sat in a chair beside the bed, embroidering another tapestry, this one to hang in the great hall. It was the middle of the night, but she wouldn't be persuaded to sleep.

This tapestry was to be for Arya, she was immortalizing the story of Nymeria. She was carefully detailing the fleet of her ships with golden thread, when she heard Jon stir.

She sat up, leaning towards him, taking his hand.

He was barechested, heavily bandaged around his shoulder. He squinted, looking towards her, and offering a sheepish sleepy grin.

"Don't you have other things to do?" he laughed.

"Hush." she said, squeezing his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Just sore." he sighed, sitting up with a grimace. "Tired of being stuck in this damned bed."

She gave him an apologetic smile.

"You're healing quickly, though." she said, standing. She bent over, checking the bandage, lifting it up to inspect the wound, which was tightly stitched and no longer bleeding. He looked up at her, as she tucked the curtain of her red hair away from her face.

"How are _you_ feeling?" Jon asked.

"I'm lovely." she said. "I'm relieved. Just worried about you, is all."

"Don't be worried about me." he insisted. "It's not even my sword arm. I could go out and do it all over again tomorrow, if you'd like."

She grinned, but said nothing, using his momentary consciousness to change the bandages how the maester had shown her.

"You look tired, Sansa." Jon said, still watching her face with scrutiny. "Have you just been sleeping in the chair?"

She looked down, unwinding some clean gauze.

"I'm fine." she said, her voice stern.

"Come lay with me, Sansa." Jon said. "There's no reason for you to be confined to a chair."

She considered this.

"I didn't want to roll over and accidentally dislodge any stitches."

"On the other side?" he looked, eyeing her dubiously. "You're being overly cautious for no good reason. Come. Please."

She finished bandaging his arm, and then sighed, defeated. She undid her cloak, and set it on top of her abandoned chair. She walked around to the other side of the bed, and pulled away the quilts. Jon made a noise of satisfaction as she curled up beside him, her skin meeting with his with a gentle and warm familiarity. He settled down, so he was laying on his good side, looking at her.

"Better." he said. "What have I been missing, trapped in this room?"

"Nothing of importance." she said. "They burned the bodies a couple days ago, the air smelled awful, I'm glad you slept through it."

"I'm familiar with the scent." he said, his face darkening. "I thought perhaps I was dreaming it."

She shook her head.

"I'm afraid not." she sighed.

Jon had a burst of energy now that he was awake, but Sansa seemed to be fading quickly beside him. He didn't mine. He'd be satisfied to watch her sleep, or simply lay with his eyes closed, her weight beside him, for hours.

She readjusted, and nestled her head onto his shoulder, closer to his face now. He could smell her familiar perfume, of rose water and lavender, and her skin was so soft, her legs entangled with his, he felt himself stirring. Sansa blinked up at him, and saw his pupils dilated, she smirked.

"I knew this was a bad idea." she said lightly. "You need rest, love, not further excitement."

"Can't you blame me for my desire?" he said. "It's our first week as a married couple, and I've been sleeping."

She bit down on her bottom lip, considering this, which only ignited him further. She felt her own body reacting, perhaps it was the closeness, or the familiar warm smell of him, or how his eyes hungrily plead with her.

Then her exhaustion took over, and she felt her own fire dwindle.

"Darling, I adore you, really." she leaned over, kissing his shoulder. "But I'm so tired."

To her surprise, he smiled. She was expecting annoyance, or even disappointment.

"Sleep, then, Lady Stark." he said. He bent slightly, kissing her forehead. "What did you tell me a few nights ago?" he puzzled, squinting his eyes. "Ah, yes, that we have the rest of our lives ahead of us."

"I don't deserve you." she said, her voice nearly a whisper now, as her eyes fluttered closed. She stroked her hair, marveling at the porcelain perfection of her face.

"No, you don't." he said. "You deserve more."

She shook her head, making a hum of protest. The next moment, she was sleeping soundly.

* * *

Jon was up and around, moving easily, the next morning. Without waking Sansa, he put his arm in a sling, pulled on a pair of pants, his boots, and tugged on a cloak to cover his chest. It had been 5 days of rest, and he knew the stitches could be removed by now. He could even move his injured arm without pain, and as he walked to the maester's chambers, he flexed his fingers for practice.

"Lord Stark." The maester said, as soon as Jon pushed the door open. He had his back turned to him, but still somehow sensed him. "You're healed well, I am sure."

"Aye." he said. "Thank you for your care. The other men, injured in battle, how are they doing?"

"All healing properly. There were only a few who sustained injuries. Here, come, sit, I'll remove your stitches."

He waved his hand to the small table in the corner, lower than most, that acted as a bench and an operating table, when need be. Jon untied his cloak.

The maester was deft about his movements. After dipping a pair of scissors in whiskey, he held them to a candle, and then turned, carefully clipping away the stitches on both sides of his shoulder. Then he cleaned the wound carefully.

"Lady Sansa did well, caring for you." he commented. "I hardly had to do a thing after I stitched you up. In fact, with her nimble fingers, I'm sure she may have done a better job than myself."

Jon grinned, and returned his cloak to his shoulders.

"Winter is Coming, m'lord, and she may very well have to learn." The maester sighed, his tone changing.

"Aye." Jon agreed. "She would flourish at whatever she attempts, I'm sure."

The maester returned to his desk, flipping through some papers. He looked up at Jon, as Jon climbed off the table.

"It was not just a political match, then, Lord Stark?" the maester asked, arching a brow. "You care for her a great deal."

"Can you blame me?" he asked. The maester laughed.

"I'm sure nobody can." he replied. "Lady Sansa is as beloved as they come."

Jon inclined his head, thanked the maester again, and left.

He found Rickon after, breaking his fast in the great hall. Rickon's eyes lit up when he saw Jon approach.

"You're better!" Rickon said, after swallowing his bite of porridge. Jon slid onto the bench beside Rickon, and took a handful of berries from the dish on the table. Jon ruffled Rickon's hair. Despite their lineage, Jon still felt very strongly that he was Rickon's brother. And technically, he supposed, they were once more, by marriage.

"I'll be back to swinging swords with you in a couple days." Jon said. Rickon laughed.

"Good. Arya never lets me win." he said, and then looked at Jon, serious suddenly. "I'm glad you're not dead, Jon. I don't know what we'd do without you."

" _You_ would all be fine." Jon replied. "But I'm glad I'm not dead, either."

"Where's Sansa?" Rickon asked.

As Jon opened his mouth to answer, the kitchen door swung open, and Sansa emerged, holding two plates of food, a piece of toast in her mouth. Jon laughed as he looked at her, and she gave him a withering look as she set the food down in front of him.

"You're welcome." she sang in a sarcastic tone.

"Thank you." he said, earnestly, picking up a piece of bacon. He realized how little he'd eaten in the past few days, and made a noise of desire Sansa was becoming familiar with. She arched a brow, and bit into the piece of toast.

They ate in happy silence, the three of them, for a few minutes, before the door at the end of the hall was opened again. A steward rushed in, holding a letter.

"Lady Sansa." he gasped, and ran across the cobblestones in haste. "A raven came this morning."

She took the letter, and her stomach soured as she saw the familiar Lannister sigil stamped across it.

"Oh Gods." she whispered. "Cersei."

Jon and Rickon watched her, still, as she opened the thick parchment. It was heavy. She unfolded it, and from within the paper, a scale fell to the table. She picked it up, examining it, before handing it to Jon. She scanned the letter for a moment, and then gasped.

"It's not Cersei." she said, her eyes still glued to the page. "It's...Tyrion."

She met eyes with Jon, who looked taken aback.

"He's alive?" Jon asked, leaning forward.

"Yes...and he heard of my marriage to Bolton...and then my escape...he knows we reside in Winterfell." she said, as she read down the letter. "He's been in Essos, with...oh Gods, Jon."

She looked up at him again.

"Daenerys Targaryen." she said, and Jon blinked.

"This has to be some sort of joke. Or a trap." Rickon said. Sansa shook her head.

"It's Tyrion's hand, I know that, for sure." she said. "They're coming to Westeros, they have a whole fleet. Gods, they're backed by the Tyrells, and the Martells...and _dragons_."

Jon looked down at the scale. It was as wide as his hand, golden green, and oddly light. It glimmered in the reflection of the lantern. 

"He sent this all with a Raven?" Jon asked, dubious. "Sounds quite risky, to me."

"What are they risking?" she asked. "They have nearly..." she swallowed. "60 thousand men. If someone intercepts it...what do they care?"

Jon's mouth opened in surprise. 

"They bring with them a Dothraki army, the army of the Unsullied, along with the Tyrells and Martells."

"What does he want, then?" Jon asked.

"Support." Sansa said, softly. "He proposes a meeting, after Daenerys takes back Kings Landing. They've supposedly granted independence to Yara Greyjoy, who _also_ supports the Targaryen. He says he 'hopes you and myself can sit down and plan for making the North an independent state, if we offer allegiance and cooperation to Queen Daenerys'."

Jon took this all in. Finally, he took the letter from Sansa's hand, reading it himself. Then, he handed it to Rickon.

"Dragons!" Rickon said in delight.

"Rickon." Sansa said, her voice low, chastising. He looked down, clearly embarrassed.

"Do we have much of a choice?" Jon whispered.

"She's your blood, Jon. She doesn't know that, yet." Sansa reached for his hand, taking it. "They want support from every angle, I suppose, and perhaps...perhaps he thought a truce between us would serve as an apology."

"For his family keeping you prisoner?" Jon demanded. "For agreeing to marry a...child?" Jon continued.

"He _never_ touched me Jon." Sansa said. "He was just as victim to his family as I."

Jon turned this over in his head.

"I don't think it's a good idea." Jon said.

"They have 60 _thousand_ men, Jon." Sansa said. 

"And dragons." Rickon added.

"With the Night King's war inching closer...we could use the help." Sansa said. "This could be the solution to it all."

"You trust Tyrion?" Jon asked, squinting his eyes at her.

"I trust him more than any other Lannister." she said. "I suspect the scale he offers as proof to the claim. If I'm remembering right, scales never could be preserved for longer than a year."

His brow furrowed.

"We can't just ride off to Kings Landing based on a letter, or a dragon scale." Jon said. She nodded. This was true. "I'm not risking the men I have for that."

He was quiet, considering this for a while. 

"We can support them only after we speak to them." Jon said. "In person. Not a letter. With 60,000 men, they will be able to take Kings Landing. The Lannister forces have barely half that."

Sansa nodded again, agreeing. Jon's brows shot up, as he realized something. 

"Wasn't Lady Brienne's squire once Tyrion's?" he asked. Sansa nodded. "Then, perhaps we can speak to him. He probably knows more about his character than even you do."

Jon looked to Rickon, who was watching the back and fourth with wide eyes. He was waiting for his input.

"If you're half Targaryen, does that mean you'll get a dragon too?" Rickon asked. Jon sighed. The child still had plenty to learn. 

"We should council with Davvos, and some of the generals." Jon said to Sansa, who nodded, standing. Not even a morning of peace before they were back to their duty. Jon stood as well, and they began to walk towards the door. Jon stopped, looking over his shoulder.

"You're coming too, you know." Jon said. Rickon grinned, standing, and chased after the pair to go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleeeease don't all go off in the comments about the letter. I don't think Tyrion reaching out to Sansa, come season seven, is too hard to believe. HOPEFULLY you all agree with me.  
>  It was either that, or Jon/Sansa reaching out to Dany based on their heritage, and I wanted more of a buildup than that. So Tyrion it was! I'll explain further in coming chapters...from Tyrion's perspective as well... I hope you're all enjoying this, thank you all so much for the constant support and Kudos. I'm crazy about this community. XXXXShiloh


	25. Chapter 25

They spent the afternoon in the council chambers, going over in extreme detail every positive and negative outcome the agreement could have for them. Davos was the most skeptical of the letter, he didn't think a Lannister was capable of any outward signs of kindness.

"I'm not sure I'd call it kindness, Ser Davos." Sansa said. "It would be a mutually beneficial relationship. I doubt he would make an offer if I didn't have something to offer him."

"Which would be? A fraction of men to offer? Lands?"

"Well, yes, but, the Northerners are loyal to the Stark name." Sansa explained. "Tyrion knows that, and probably informed the Queen of this. No matter who has sat on the Iron Throne, for hundreds of years it has been the Stark's who were answered to, not a King in the South. If she wins us over, she also wins over The North. Not to mention, she'll be pleased to find out, she also has a Targaryen here as well. It would leverage how valuable we are."

"Potential heirs?" One of Jon's military advisors, Lord Claine, asked. Sansa looked over.

"That's one of many things, yes." Sansa said.

Jon was watching this exchange with awe. Once Sansa started in, she was unstoppable, and he was eating up every bit of it. He watched, entranced, at the way her eyes glowed as she spoke about the benefits of the relationship, and how her jaw locked up like his did when someone interrupted her.

She easily glided all the men through the likelihood of every outcome, the sensitivities in political relationships when one family is taken off the throne by force. It wasn't just the main ruling houses that would be effected, but the smaller vassal houses, they too, could be heavily effected by the change of ruling force. She went over the court customs in a Targaryen court as opposed to a Baratheon one.

Jon, using the map of Kings Landing, best predicted whatever troop movements they might expect Daenerys to use, what parts of the city would be heavily affected. They predicted trade would be halted for a time, so to ration carefully and order as much stores in the next days as they could get their hands on.

Together, the pair made up a stellar team. They complimented eachother's strengths, and filled out for one another's weaknesses.

By evening, everyone had hashed out the possible details, and both Jon and Sansa, who'd done most of the talking (and arguing) were worn out. They walked out of the chambers, with Rickon behind them.

Arya leaned against a pillar just outside, picking dirt out of her fingernails.

"Gods, you people were in there for a long time." she said. "Did I miss out on all the excitement?"

"You missed out on nothing." Rickon grumbled. Jon gave him a look. All the complaining was going to have to end at some point, whether or not Rickon came to that conclusion alone, or Jon had to give a long lecture about it - time would tell.

Sansa, nearly reading Jon's mind, whirled around, and gave Rickon a heavy slap across the back of his head. She grabbed his shoulder, leaning down, dangerously close to him.

" _If you don't stop with this childish nonsense, Rickon-_ " she began. She made a noise of frustration, and pulled away. " _YOU_ talk to him, I do it enough!" she snapped at Jon, who looked just as surprised.

Sansa stormed off.

"She hasn't eaten since breakfast." Jon sighed, explaining her sudden mood change to Rickon and Arya, who both stared in surprise at the disappearing form of their sister.

"She is right, though, Rickon." Jon continued, taking Rickon's shoulder. Rickon swallowed. "I can't do this alone, I can't be the only man of this house. You're still the heir to Winterfell, and you need to start acting like one."

Rickon nodded. Jon turned to Arya.

"How'd the training going?" he asked. "The new troops catching on?"

"Yes _sir."_ she said with a giggle. He rolled his eyes, and walked into the courtyard, Arya at his side0, through the thick icy slush. "No really, it helps they were already trained so well, it's just polishing up the edges. Some of those men though really don't like answering to a Lady."

"Who?" Jon demanded, pausing to look at her. She scoffed.

"Oh, Jon, so noble, you are. The lead guard, Errol, he's been taking care of it. He near punched a footsoldier's teeth out the other day for calling me a twat."

" _What?_ The lady of their house?" Jon said.

"Aw, give them some leave. It's not like I'm down there in a pretty dress with my hair done up, like Sansa. I'm slinging shit at them just as much."

"They just don't like that you're better than them." Jon concluded. Arya grinned, delighted to receive such a compliment.

In the dining hall, Sansa had gotten her supper before waiting for the rest of them, and was happily filling her stomach.

"Better?" Jon asked in between her bites of the venison pie they were eating. She shot him a dark look. He snorted. "I'll ask in a few minutes, then."

In the evening, Rickon and Arya both went their separate ways, and Jon and Sansa were left alone in the solar's sitting room.

Jon sat at the end of the long velvet settee, and Sansa laid her head in his lap, reading a book. Jon broodily stared into the fire, lightly fiddling with Sansa's braid. Ghost snored lightly, curled up on the rug in front of the hearth.

After a while, Sansa set her book down, looking up at Jon.

"What crumples your brow, m'lord?" she asked, sitting up, and turning round 180 degrees, so she was facing him, her knees at her chest. She balanced her chin on her knee, waiting for his answer.

"The times to come." he sighed. "With one fallen enemy, more will pop up." he reached for her cheek, stroking it. "I wonder sometimes what would have become of us had we just ridden south, disappear to somewhere with sunshine."

She shut her eyes, allowing herself to imagine this life. A tiny cottage beside the sea, just quiet, her and Jon, eating shellfish, drunk on sunlight and cheap wine.

"Our fates aren't always what we prefer." she whispered. She used her hand to press his against her cheek, holding it there. She adored the roughness of his hands, how much warmth still came through the harsh skin. His hands were a wonderful metaphor for the man he'd become. Such a fearsome, tough, brave creature on the outside, with a warmth radiating through him that was so surprisingly tender, she always chastised her younger self for never seeing it. "But our fates brought us together, did they not?"

He grinned, looking down for a moment, relishing in this.

"You traveled beyond the wall, you were the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. You fought an army of the dead. You died yourself. All to end up, here, with me." Sansa said.

"Nothing compared to your suffering, my lady." he said. She shook her head.

"Don't compare them, then." she said. "We traveled a long and weary road, Jon, and we ended up here, right now, in this moment. In a moment of peace, and quiet, and stillness, and warmth. It's temporary, of course."

She sat up a little, taking his other hand.

"It's temporary, but we're here."

"Always with the pretty words." he sighed. "A pretty lady, with her pretty words."

She wrinkled her nose.

"You're more than that, I know." he said, assuring her. "I just worry. Before...at the wall, it was really only my life I was concerned about. Of course, I worried for the lives of my men, of my friends, but mostly, myself. I was fighting to keep myself alive. Now, my priorities have changed. Everything else seems so much more irrelevant, even my own life. It's only you. It's...as though I have tunnel vision. Everything I do now, Sansa, it's to benefit you. Us. Our home. And now, it's like all my worries have multiplied. Because your life seems so much more important than mine."

" _Now_ who has the pretty words?" Sansa asked. She let herself marvel at his face, in the light of the fire it caught new shadows, had a new depth. So ruggedly handsome, he was, everything from the angle of his jaw, the stubble along it, his lips, his cheeks, his nose, it all blended together so well. And then, _gods,_ his eyes, so wonderfully expressive, so much of his soul, right there. She remembered scolding him for keeping his emotions on his sleeves, back in White Harbor, but now she adored it. She ate it up, she loved how she could tell his every thought and feeling, just by looking at his eyes. She knew not everyone could translate the subtleties of them, but she'd become adept at calculating his thoughts.

He looked over at her, as she watched him in silence. She saw his thoughts shift from concern to adoration, and her stomach did a tumble. Gods, how did she end up here? A year ago she was praying every night for death to take her. Now, she was sitting on a cushion, and a man was looking at her with stars in his eyes. A man, a knight, her savior, her protector, her partner. A man who worshiped her, who kissed her scars instead of deepening them, who held her in her grief, who lessened her nightmares, who admired her.

"Do you want to go to bed?" she asked, turning, letting her feet hit the floor.

"To sleep?" he asked. She grinned, and shook her head.

"I want to get your mind off your worries, Lord Stark." she said, reaching for his hand.

* * *

Sansa was spent. She was near hanging off the edge of the bed, gasping for breath. Jon was standing, but leaning against the bed post, pressing his forehead into the back of his hand, also panting. He looked at Sansa, and managed a laugh.

She rolled, settling on the center of the bed.

"You alright?" he asked, bending, resting his palms on the corner of the bed, watching her. She nodded, and echoed his laughter with her own giggle.

"Lovely, lovely." she sighed. He grinned, climbing onto the bed, and atop her. He hovered above her, and began kissing her cheeks until she squirmed away.

"Give me leave!" she squealed, but the smile at her lips showed no anger. She looked up at him, stroking the soft but thick hair that ran along his jaw.

Jon fell beside her, and they laid, side by side, as they allowed their breath to steady, and the moisture from their skin to cool in the tepid air of the chamber.

"Why can't we just do _that_ all the time?" Sansa asked, rolling over onto her side, looking at him. Her hair had become a tangled mess, and Jon laughed again, and went to smooth it down.

"Well, m'lady, with the coming winter storms, we may be snowed in more than once. There's not much to do when you're snowed in, I'm afraid."

"Mmmm." she closed her eyes.

"I think I can understand why Ned and Catelyn had so many children." Jon commented, and Sansa pulled a face, smacking him on the shoulder.

"I don't want to think of that." she protested. "But you did remind me." she sighed, and stood. Jon rolled over, watching her go to the fire to move the kettle over the hearth. She found a jar on the far shelf, along with a mug she used repeatedly. She filled the mug with the leaves from the jar, and set it on the hearth, returning to the bed while the water boiled.

Jon looked up at her, as she pulled her legs into a crossed position.

"What?" she asked, looking down at him with a furrowed brow. He shook his head, giving her a reassuring grin. "Are you impatient?" she whispered.

He took her hand, kissing her fingertips.

"No." he said. "I'll be ready whenever you are."

"I don't know when that will be, Jon." she sighed. He sat up, leaning against the headboard, watching her. "There's not too many things that scare me anymore, but bringing a little...innocent baby, into this world?"

"I understand." he said. "Probably more than anyone."

"Thank you." Sansa replied softly. "It's not out of the question, Jon. But...what if something goes horribly wrong? I'd end up losing not only you..." she ran her hand through her mussed hair, letting the rest of the words die in her mouth. 

Jon leaned forward, kissing her. 

"Let's return to our happiness." he said. "No more worries for now, alright?" 

Using her hair, he pulled her head carefully to the side, pressing his lips against her neck. She made a small noise of satisfaction. He moved lower, taking his time this round, not the mad rush of passion they'd had earlier in the evening. He kissed down her breasts and belly, and she opened her legs, already knowing where he was heading. 

"Now who's in a rush?" he asked, looking up at her from a soft spot near her hip. She laughed, but was halted midway as he ushered her into a low moan. "Mmm, there we are." he said, dipping lower still, focusing on her enticing center. He supported the small of her back as he worked, and delighted in drawing out every noise and quiver he could get from her. 

He worked for near an hour before Sansa was spent, and shoving his head away from her, unable to take another moment of the pleasure. He moved back up to her, as she sunk down into the bed. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissing the back of her neck.

"You've probably boiled all the water off at this point, love." he whispered, remembering the kettle. She laughed, and the sound vibrated deep into his ribcage, warming him. He shut his eyes, relishing the feel of her closeness, the lingering taste of her in his mouth. 

Before he knew it, he'd fallen into a deep sleep, Sansa following him quickly after. 


	26. Chapter 26

_The Wall_

"Lord Commander." a voice called politely, Derak Conswood, a member of the Night's Watch, tapping on the wood to the commanders chamber. Edd looked up from the paper on his desk.

"Come in." he called.

"My Lord, the Rangers...they come riding, now."

Edd stood, nonchalantly. The Rangers weren't beyond the Wall for long this time, instead he'd sent them out on a two day journey, to see if they could get a grasp on the impending Army.

He walked to the door, and caught glimpse of the look Derak had on his face.

"They found something." Derak whispered. "Well, someone. Two someones."

"Oh?" Edd asked, walking from the room, trailed by Derak.

"Aye, and the children are asking for Jon."

"Children?" Edd paused, looking to Derak.

"I figured you'd be best to speak with them."

Edd, confused, moved fast now, down the ramps to the lower level chambers, where Derak opened the door for him, allowing him past.

At one of the long tables, a younger girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, he guessed, in heavy furs, sat nervously. Laying beside her, on the table, was a boy, heavy brow, long hair, and thin crooked legs. He appeared to be sleeping.

"Who are you?" Edd asked, sitting at the bench across from her.

"Where's Jon?" she asked. "Jon Snow, we know he's with the Watch."

"Not anymore." Edd sighed.

Meera's face crumbled, and her hands flew to her face. She looked nervously at Bran.

"He didn't tell me that." she muttered.

"Oi, little lady, eyes on me, please. Why is your friend fast asleep?"

"He's not asleep." she sighed. "He's in a vision-state. Is _Jon_ dead?"

"No." Edd said. "He's left. He's back in Winterfell. Who _are_ you?"

Meera's eyes widened, and she looked positively thrilled.

"My name is Meera Reed. This is Bran Stark, Jon's brother." she said, motioning at Bran's sleeping form behind her.

Edd nearly choked at this, and it took him a moment to gain his composure.

"Bran?" he asked. He knew the name, he knew the story. Jon spoke of him often, he adored his little brothers. Edd stood, looking at the sleeping form of Bran. He thought that perhaps he may look similar to Jon, the dark brow, the way his cheeks and nose looked.

"What's your name?" Meera asked, now impatient.

"My name's Edd." Edd said, turning to her. "And I think you and I better fetch a Raven for Jon."

"That would be best." she said. "Also, do you have a Godswood tree near here?"

Edd looked down at the girl, puzzled. This day wasn't going as he'd expected _at all_.

* * *

_King's Landing_

Cersei had sent near half a hundred ravens to every corner of The North. She ordered them sent not to the houses, sure that the loyal noble vassal houses would tell the Starks of her plan, but instead the darkest corners of the North. Prison towns, seedy bars, and to the few connections she had, hiding in the North. 50,000 gold dragons was more than enough to gain someone's attention.

The ravens had been sent out 6 days before the invasion began.

Cersei, in the Red Keep, saw a large shadow black out the sun. At the same time it passed by, she heard shouts from the hall, coming towards her chambers.

The Kings Guard burst through the doors.

"My Queen...you need to come with us."

"What is it?" she demanded, standing. She looked out the far window.

She caught a glimpse of a black wing passing by. Immense, larger than anything she could imagine. The size of a navy ship, just a wing.

She froze. She felt the arms of the guards on her, pulling her, desperately. There was an immense shaking of the castle, as the beast landed on the roof. It let out a vicious screech, so loud the group instinctively covered their ears.

"The beast just took out the entire fleet." a guard told Cersei after the noise ceased.

"A Targaryen?" Cersei demanded, as they practically dragged her towards the door. She was stumbling, overtook with emotions. Confusion, rage, and dread.

"We need to get you to the dungeons, m'lady."

"The _dungeons?_ " she screamed.

"There's _three_ dragons." Another guard continued. "If we want to preserve your life..."

There was a huge burst of flame from behind them, Cersei felt the heat radiating on the back of her neck. She began running, as did the guards.

It would all be futile.

* * *

_A settlement just outside First Flint, The North_

_4 days earlier_

The raven arrived at a bar on the very edges of First Flint. The barkeep, and owner, was an older man, as tall as a tree, as wide and thick as a stump. He was called 'One Eye' or "Lord Stumbles." He had a stunted leg, and one clear grey one, one dark brown.

He read over the decree. He blinked stupidly at the price. Gods, that Southern Queen really had it out for the Starks.

He considered, first, doing it himself, and then chuckled. There was no possible way for him to have any advantage of skill to accomplish such a task. A lady, in Winterfell? Married to the un-dead bastard, surrounded by thousands of soldiers and a few direwolves?

But, gods, if he didn't want some moron to attempt it. He found an ink bottle, and a pen, and added his own edit to the bottom of the decree.

"Free Drinks for the bas-dard who done it for LIFE at these parts." he scribbled at the end of it. He took a hammer and nail, and attached it to the door of his bar.

With the fall of the hammer, a man tying his horse outside the bar turned, looking to the sign.

"What's that?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

"The Bitch in Kings Landing wants the head of the Stark girl." One eye chuckled, still nailing the sign. He turned round when he was did, and stepped back in surprise. The man beside his horse was near taller than the horse itself, his hair matted and tangled, and a bright red scar disfigured half his face.

Sandor Clegane paused, absorbing this. He walked forward, to examine the sign. The barkeep stepped away, leaning against the wood of the building, watching him with wide eyes.

He laughed.

"Those Starks can't seem to catch a break, can they?" he asked. "How far is Winterfell from here?"

"3 days journey, normally." One Eye replied. "But if you're at a running pace, on a horse like that, I suspect you'd make it in 2. Only because the weather is good. You catch a storm, you're out of luck."

"Right." The Hound replied. He reached forward, yanking the decree from the door.

"Sure, you can have it." One Eye grumbled. The Hound had already turned around, and was untying his horse.

He'd heard, in passing, bits and pieces of the Starks since he'd been back on the road, after leaving the ruins of Brother Ray's camp behind him.

Most recently, he'd been surprised to hear of Arya's return. In a way, he was happy for the child. In _his_ way, at least. As in, he'd grunted non-committedly, and had an extra drink for her, when he'd heard the jolly news.

Sansa, though, he remembered her as well. The little scared bird from King's Landing, Joffery's toy. Pretty little thing, everyone said so. He'd saved her, once.

He had been heading to Winterfell anyhow. Once he heard of Arya's return, he was returning, hopefully to gain some sort of employment, or something. He didn't know anyone else in The North. And as much as the little shit had irritated him, he owed her a debt, whether she knew it or not. He was also looking forward to seeing her face when she saw he was alive. Perhaps, even, she would order him killed. What did he care? But this information, if that would be her plan, might save his skin.

He tucked the paper into his coat, and without looking back, kicked off, riding towards the Kings Road, and south, to Winterfell.

* * *

_Winterfell  
_

Sansa had spent the days returning to Household Management, following the decision on what to do about the Targaryen queen, slowly approaching from Essos. She found herself dreaming of Cersei's death, of her being burnt to a crisp by an immense dragon, and she would awake in a lovely mood.

One morning, a few days following Jon's return to health, Sansa sought out her sister, pulling her from the training encampment near the barracks.

She grinned as she walked down from the castle, to the silence that fell upon the usually rowdy soldiers.

"Oh, Gods." Arya groaned, as the soldier she was sparring with dropped his sword and knelt. Arya rolled her eyes, turning to her sister. "I never get this treatment, you know."

Sansa laughed.

"I apologize, lords, but I require my sister." Sansa said.

Arya sighed, running the back of her hand over her forehead. She turned to Lord Errol, the head of the castle guard and, now, good friend.

"Run troops 18 and 23 through the training again today. They were having trouble. I'll be back."

He grinned, nodded, and began barking orders to the rows of men standing round.

Sansa eyed Lord Errol with an arched brow as Arya walked up to her. Errol was tall, taller than Jon, and had a rugged face but kind blue eyes, and soft blonde curls.

" _That's_ the Lord you speak so highly of?" Sansa said, still watching him. "He's quite handsome, isn't he?"

"Oi, if this is what you need me for, I'd much rather retur-"

"Relax." Sansa said, laughing. "I only wanted to see if you wanted to go on a ride with me."

Arya looked confused.

"Come on, we used to do it when we were younger. I've enlisted just a couple guards to accompany us, and it'll be fun. The sun is out probably just for today, and I'm tired of being cooped up writing orders and accounts all day."

Arya frowned, considering this.

"Better than kicking the ass of all of your husband's men, I suppose." Arya said. "No talking of marrying me off, or something, though." Arya said, pointing a hand at Sansa. Sansa lifted her hands in surrender.

They walked towards the stables in silence for a moment.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Arya asked. "With Queen Cersei probably hearing about us killing her army, or whatever, I'm sure she's got some plot in the works."

Sansa shook her head.

"You forget she has much bigger problems than me." Sansa said. "There are dragons coming for her."

She smiled, and Arya smiled back.

The sisters rode out across the wide rolling fields beyond Winterfell, closely followed by two guardsmen. Nymeria ran beside Arya, yapping and barking with glee at the chance to run in an open space again.

They reached the edge of the trees, and Sansa slowed.

"How are you at shooting?" Sansa asked, taking the bow and arrow on her horse's saddlebag. Arya had one too.

"Are you suggesting a hunt?" Arya asked, her brow arched. "I thought ladies never participated in such a thing."

"Please." Sansa said, rolling her eyes. "I'm hoping you'd show me."

Arya smiled wider.

"You've selected a wonderful teacher, my lady." Arya said in a singsong voice. "Come on, we should stay closer to the treeline, but there should be more than enough targets to shoot in the forest."

They led their horses in, the two guards exchanging looks, and then following them through.

Arya moved her horse closer to Sansa, as they delved into the darkness of the woods. She showed her how to properly hold her bow, where the string should rest on her hand, how it should touch her cheek. She found a wide maple tree, with a bump of moss on the trunk. This would become the target. With each arrow that missed, Nymeria dipped into the distance, sniffed it out, and brought it back.

The sisters spent ages shooting, and after a little while, Sansa was starting to get the hang of it. She looked back at Arya after a couple hours, quite miffed with herself.

"Lady Sansa." a voice said from behind them. One of the two guards had gone back out to the trees, and was looking in the distance. The guard that spoke looked nervous, unsure of what to do.

"What is it?" she asked, letting her arrow drop. Nymeria let out a low, menacing growl. Sansa and Arya exchanged nervous looks.

"Just a lone traveler on the Kingsroad." he said. "We would just prefer it if you stayed in here for a moment. He heads towards the castle."

"A lone traveler?" Arya scoffed. She looked to Sansa. "Hide away, sister, death comes for us in an army of one."

"It is not an average traveler." the guard continued. "He looks to be...quite formidable."

"A giant?" Sansa asked, humor in her voice.

"You're being ridiculous." Arya said. "Let me see him for myself, and we can decide the danger on our own."

Arya moved forward, Nymeria by her side. Sansa followed, giving the guard a funny look as she passed.

Arya pushed through the trees, and to the edge of the forest. She squinted, into the distance, Northeast from where they stood now. She froze, halting the horse at once.

"We need to return to the castle." Arya said, looking back.

"Who is it?" Sansa asked, peering past her sister. She, from the distance, did not recognize him as Arya had.

"Sansa, come on." Arya snapped, there wasn't time to answer her. She had already broken her mare into a gallop. Sansa looked at the guards, and nodded, bidding them follow. They raced across the field, back towards their home.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- SO SORRY FOR THE HIATUS, but I'm back, ya'll! Thanks so much in advance for your reviews, subscriptions, and positive vibes. I love you all dearly.

 

* * *

Sansa and Arya reached the castle gates with another minute to spare.

Sansa realized who it was halfway up to the castle, and her heart was pounding. She knew Arya had been travelling with him, a while before now, but Arya said she'd left him for dead. Brienne had killed him.

Yet here he was, riding towards the castle.

"Archers!" Arya screamed, up at the guard towers. There was a rustling of movement, and then from the arrowslits, came near two dozen arrows, aimed at the Kingsroad.

"Go get Jon." Sansa ordered to one of the footsoldiers at the front gate.

The Hound rode up the path, slowing his horse as he did.

Arya and Sansa were still, side by side, staring in bewilderment at the appearance of such an old foe.

"Arya." Sandor began, still quite a few paces away from her when he stopped.

"I left you for dead." Arya said. Sansa looked at her sister, nervously.

"For that, I should thank you." The Hound responded. "Lady Sansa, glad to see you made it out of Kings Landing unscathed."

Sansa didn't respond, but straightened up on her horse.

"Did you not think I'd kill you the moment you'd step foot on our land?" Arya asked.

"I figured as much." Sandor said. He pulled the parchment from his lapel, and held it forward, waiting.

"What is it?" Arya demanded.

"It's a reward, posted for the death of your sister." he said. "Thought you might be interested."

Sansa's eyes widened. She looked to Arya.

"Nymeria." Arya said, and whistled. Nymeria stepped forward, going to the Hound's horse. He held it out to her, eyeing it nervously. Nymeria gently took it from his hands, and then turned back to her master. Arya took it from the jaw of her beast, wiping the saliva off the corners, and looked at it, read it through.

"Another traveler told me he saw two in Queenscrown. I suspect they're also spread further south." he explained.

Arya swallowed, and looked to Sansa. Sansa saw the fear in her eyes, and felt her stomach clench. She reached for it, and looked it over. She understood immediately the fear in Arya's eyes.

50,000 gold dragons was near enough to turn even the loyalest of houses.

The Hound was watching the pair in silence, waiting. Arya looked at him.

"You think this would spare your life?" Arya demanded.

"I saved your life more times than you'd like to recognize, my _lady._ " Sandor said. Arya frowned. "Or are you forgetting?"

There was a noise of clamored 'm'lords' and Sansa turned, to watch Jon walk through the gates, Ghost at his side. Sansa dismounted, and handed the decree to him with no words.

"He brought it to us." Arya said, nodding at the Hound. Jon looked up, but didn't greet him. He looked back to the letter, then to Sansa. She saw the same concern in his dark eyes.

"You should go, inside." he said.

"No." Sansa said. She crossed her arms. "This is directly concerning me. I want to be here for the council."

"50,000 Gold Dragons for your head?" Jon hissed, taking her shoulder. "That's near double what we have in the house stores right now. I don't _care_ if Cersei is about to be overthrown, we have no way of knowing if or when that will actually happen."

Sansa blinked at him.

"I'm not betting on your life." He said, meeting her eyes. She swallowed. "Go, inside."

She opened her mouth to argue further, but he held his hand up.

"This is not a discussion, Sansa." he said. "Do you need an escort?"

He saw the anger flash in her eyes, and knew he'd be paying for this later.

"Ghost, go on, with Sansa." Jon said, and Ghost turned, gently nudging Sansa's hip. Jon continued to ignore the fire in Sansa's eyes as she walked back to the gates. Jon turned to Arya.

"What with him?" he asked, looking to Arya.

She considered this for a long moment. She looked at The Hound, up and down, brow arched, and then back to Jon.

"He may be of use to us in the coming war." she admitted. As much as she had a distaste for him, he was loyal to no other house, and he was a formidable soldier. "Although, Brienne won't be pleased."

"No reward?" Clegane asked, only half joking.

"Your life is your reward." Jon replied. The Hound began to reply, to make a comment about him, to use his words instead of his sword to hurt him, but he thought better of it, and closed his mouth. Jon was the head of the house, and if he wanted somewhere to stay, and something to eat, he needed to bite his tongue. "You can stay at the barracks, with the other men."

"Am I enlisted in your army, Lord Commander?"

"If Arya thinks you have the skills." Jon replied. "She's the lead trainer."

Arya gave Sandor a smug look.

* * *

Sansa crossed the courtyard, her heart pounding in anger. Sent away, like a child, by her own husband. Despite what he thought, she was as capable as ever of defending herself. She clenched her fists. Why did she have to continually prove herself to him? Why was he so inclined to think less of her, simply for being a lady? If she was a man in similar circumstances, Jon wouldn't take any issue with exchanging thoughts and strategies with her, instead, he sends her back to her rooms.

"My Lady!" A voice called, and a steward was chasing after her, through the icy half frozen courtyard, holding a piece of parchment.

"I already heard." she responded, assuming it was yet another warrant for her from Cersei, sent by a loyal house, perhaps.

He reached her, and handed her the parchment anyways. Embossed in wax was a raven, which Sansa puzzled at for a moment until she realized it was from The Wall. Her stomach soured as she realized this could be the impending invasion of the army of the dead.

She tore it open, not bothering for retrieving a letter opener. She scanned the letter, and the terror was replaced by a joyous, bright relief.

She looked at the steward, who stood awkwardly, waiting to be dismissed. Unable to contain her joy, she let out a sudden and delighted yelp, and threw her arms around the young man, laughing deliriously.

"Thank you." she said, grabbing his shoulders. The young steward's cheeks had flushed a deep red, and he stuttered in confusion, overwhelmed. She gave him a final shoulder clap, and turned, hurrying back to the gate.

Jon and Arya came in a moment later, and she met his eyes from across the yard. The anger from the moment before had melted away. She picked up her skirts and ran towards them, slipping on a puddle of ice as she reached them, Jon grabbing her shoulders and preventing her fall.

She wordlessly shoved the letter into Jon's face, and he stepped back, taking it from her. She waited, wringing her hands, as he read it, and she saw the same glow in his eyes she felt in her chest.

He looked back up to Sansa, smiling, and handed the letter to Arya.

Arya made a noise of disbelief.

"What if it's a trap?" Arya asked. "To get to Sansa, somehow? Lure us away from her side, or, take her with us, and have her vulnerable on the King's Road."

"I know Edd's hand." Jon said. " _And_ the only one who gets that wax seal is the Lord Commander. He wouldn't make this up."

Arya swallowed, but seemed satisfied with his reasoning.

"We should head North." Arya insisted. "Meet them on the Kingsroad, sooner, rather than later, with a real force of men."

Jon looked at Arya and she frowned.

"No offense, crow." she said.

"I want to come." Sansa said. Jon took a breath. She had already been upset with him once today, and now, he was sure he'd be sleeping in the barracks for a month.

"You can't, Sansa." he said.

Arya inhaled quickly through her nose, looked at the pair of them, and turned on her heel.

"I'll just bring this to Rickon on my own." she whispered theatrically, before leaving them alone beside the gates.

"Arya is right, the Kingsroad leaves you much too vulnerable-"

"As opposed to travelling alone for weeks with only you as my guard?" Sansa interrupted. "Was that too vulnerable?"

" _Yes._ " Jon snapped. He reached for her arm, taking it gently and stepping closer to her. "What would I be without you Sansa? How could I let myself lose you?"

Sansa swallowed, thinking of a reply.

"Then you can't go either!" She snapped.

"This isn't an argument." Jon said. "There's a price on your head for the time being, and until your Tyrion and the Targaryen finish what they claim to do, you are in danger."

He swallowed, but she stayed quiet. He took another step closer to her.

"It is my sworn duty to protect you. Whether you _like_ it or not, Sansa."

He spoke low, and dangerous, a tone he hardly used with Sansa. It sent chills to the base of her spine. But she straightened, and stepped closer.

"If you insist on keeping me prisoner, m'lord, I insist you give me leave." she said. Then, she turned quickly, and stormed across the courtyard, shaking with anger.

Jon watched her in stunned silence. She didn't look back until she reached the top of the stairs, and gave him another cold look. She was struck suddenly by the hurt in his eyes, but she shoved this away. He knew as well as anyone she wasn't a docile quiet wife. Nor would she be, not today, and not in ten years.

She locked the door of her rooms tightly behind her.

* * *

Jon spent the rest of the day preparing for the journey to Bran. They'd leave in the morning, at first light. He oversaw the packing of the horses, and the rations. Now, alone in his office, the evening had sunk into late night, and he stared, unseeing, at the page of names in front of him.

They would ride out to meet the small guard escorting Bran. The journey wouldn't be long. Then, finally then, they would all be home.

Home. He mentally paused as he realized how easily the word came to his mind. For years he'd had such trouble applying the word to Winterfell, and now, it seemed natural. His family was here. He was running the home, the army, honoring Ned and his mother as best he could. He would raise his children behind these walls, and they would bear the name Stark, not Snow.

He must go to her, he decided, pushing the list away. It was fine, he was sure, Davos picked the men from Errol's list, and he trusted them both deeply.

The door was unusually latched when he arrived to their shared solar.

"Sansa." He said, knocking with his toe, waiting. He looked down at the floor, where a sliver of light from within spilled onto the floorboards. After a moment, it vanished, the light within had been extinguished. "Come on, Sansa, let me at least speak to you for a moment."

His pleas were met with continued silence. He pressed his forehead against the cool worn wood of the door. Beside him, Ghost made an impatient whine.

After a few moments, it was clear nothing would change. He sunk to the floor, turning around to lean against the door. Ghost curled around him, resting his heavy head in his lap.

Inside, Sansa watched the light underneath the door as well. She could see the two shadows his legs cast, and then, when he sat, he blocked near all the light from entering the room.

Sansa stood, holding the robe around her tightly. She crept to the door, quietly. She was, despite her anger, touched by his loyalty.

She opened the door, and Jon fell back, catching himself at the last moment. Both Jon and Ghost looked up at her with matching sad eyes.

"You think I'd leave you out in the cold all evening?" she asked. Jon pulled himself up.

"I was hoping not." he said.

"Come to bed." she said, taking his hand. "You have an early start tomorrow, it's already much later than it should be."

"Sansa." he said, holding his hand up. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be so strict-"

"Your heart is in the right place, Jon." she replied. She let his hand fall and went to put more logs on the fire. Ghost happily plodded over and curled up beside the hearth. "Taking all the heat, are you?" Sansa asked with a smile, crouching down.

Jon watched her, illuminated only by the fire behind her, and his heart sang in relief. She finally stood again, and went to the other side of the bed, climbing in.

"I should go bathe." Jon said, walking to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Will you still be up when I return?"

"No promises." she whispered.

When he did return, Sansa was sleeping soundly. He too the opportunity to pack, in the dim light that the fire allowed him. When he climbed into bed, finally ready, Sansa stirred.

"Jon." She said softly, half a whisper, reaching for him. He gathered her then, so grateful for the steady comfort she provided. He shuddered, thinking again of the price on her head. He wouldn't be able to live without her, he realized, as he thought it through. She'd become his entire world, and he never would have thought she could have. But she represented everything he'd ever wanted, a home, a name, a place to belong, a family. So she became everything.

He hardly slept. Instead, he kept a constant hand on her head, stroking her hair, thinking of their future.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!   
> I've received so many sweet messages and comments about people re-reading, and talking about how much they love this story, so I'll start out by thanking you ALL with my whole heart. I always intended to finish this story, but life got in the way, and it fell between the cracks. But I'm breaking my hiatus and I'm hopefully going to keep the project going. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, more soon to come.

The dawn was dim, chilly. Fog rolled through Winterfell, creating a thick blanket.

Sansa had awoken in the early hours, but stayed in bed, listening to Jon's steady breathing beside her. She arose eventually, just before she knew the sun would break onto the horizon, and added another log to the fire. She settled herself on the rug there, curling up beside Ghost, crossing her legs like a child. Ghost stirred, resting his heavy head on her thighs, snuffing a sigh as he did.

She ran her hands through his thick soft coat, kissing the top of his head, between the ears. She inhaled the smell of him, so similar to Jon. Woodsmoke and fresh air.

Ghost moved suddenly, looking towards the door with wide eyes, his body completely still. His ears perked up, and Sansa froze as well. She felt her heart rate elevate as Ghost made a low growl in the back of his throat.

She looked over her shoulder at Jon, sleeping soundly still.

Then she heard a clatter of metal, in the hallways outside, and some shouts. Guards voices, she recognized, yelling orders. She pulled herself up quickly, and Ghost stood as well, but did not budge from her side. She walked backwards, her eyes staying glued to the wood of the door, her ears straining. She looked at Jon again, trying to will herself to move faster, but something was holding her back. Locking her muscles in place, straining her voice. Panic, pure and hot, ran through her veins and immobilized her.

Ghost finally made a growling yelping noise loud enough to stir Jon. He rolled, and then pushed himself up suddenly, looking around in a weighted sleepy daze. He saw Sansa, her face drawn and pale, her eyes still bleary from the early morning, her red hair loose and wild. She always looked her age first thing in the morning, it was only when she was properly dressed and done up that she resembled the wise queen she was becoming.

"What is it?" he asked, pulling himself out of bed and reaching for his cloak in the same swift movement. The pair fell quiet as they listened to the shouts of guards, another clatter of metal, and finally a stretch of silence.

"Stay with her." Jon said, to Ghost, before grabbing Longclaw and going to the door. Sansa tightened her grip on the scruff of Ghost's neck, still locked in place, standing at the end of the bed.

A guard was standing, hand raised about to knock, when Jon threw the door open. He jumped, stepping back, surprised to see his master wielding a sword in his direction.

"M'lord, there's been an impostor." he said by way of explanation. "He's captured, though."

Jon lowered the sword.

"How did he get through the gates?" Jon demanded.

"He was hidden in a barrel of barley, that came in yesterday evening on a wagon from town."

Jon looked back at Sansa, and then again to the guard.

"Did he speak to his motive?"

"Aye, he did." The guard said, and then his eyes moved to Sansa's face for a moment.

"I'd like to speak to him." Jon said. "Is he in the dungeons?"

"Aye, m'lord."

Jon closed the door, looking to Sansa.

"An assassin." she whispered. Jon did not reply, but instead went to the wardrobe, and began pulling on some more clothes. Sansa remained immobile, hanging onto Ghost like a raft in a wild sea, her desperate grip onto some semblance of safety.

"An assassin who was caught by our house guard, Sansa." Jon said. "Our _loyal_ house guards, who know as well as you and I that the bounty will not be carried to fruition."

"Can I come with you to see him?"

"Why?"

"A man who desires my death, I'd like to see him. I'd like him to see me." she said, her voice cool. "I don't wish to be a princess locked in a tower, m'lord."

After yesterday, Jon decided it was best he not argue.

"I'll send men towards the Wall straight away, but I'll need to leave later today. This needs to be attended to." he sighed. "I really _shouldn't_ leave."

"Bran needs you." Sansa said.

"So do you." he said.

She paused. She wondered if that was really true.

"I'll follow you down." she said. "I need to dress and...settle myself."

"Are you alright?" he asked, looking at her with careful scrutiny. She didn't respond for a long moment, patting Ghost's ears.

"I'm fine." she said, finally. "I am. I will be. I have to accept my role, whatever it may come with."

He considered this, and then nodded. Before he left he kissed her on the cheek.

* * *

"So, nobody sent you?" Jon asked again, looking at the man before him. The assassin, as it were. A small and wiry fellow, which is why he was able to fit inside a barrel of grain. He had a glimmer to his eye that made him look as though he was quite amused by all of this, but his face was filthy, and his brow knotted seemingly permanently into a grimace. He told everyone his name was Lady Alys.

"Nobody but the Queen!" he said. "The Queen herself, Jon Snow, she understands us commoners, as it were. Do you know how many desperate and poor wanderers head for your halls, Jon Snow?"

The man snorted.

"A bounty more than your house is worth! It's inevitable your armies will turn on you! Your sworn swords! They _always pay their debts_ Jon Snow!"

Jon had intended to coerce some information from the man, and in some ways, he'd given Jon plenty. He was clearly not a part of a mastermind's grand scheme, some of the local guard explained they'd seen him many a time at the local bar, usually sleeping outside after a long day of indulgence.

The dungeon door opened, and Jon turned. Sansa edged into the room, staying just beside the door after she closed it. This cell room was small, bitterly cold, water dripped down the walls. The man was attached with chains against the far wall. The only other furniture in the room were a couple wooden crates, stacked against the opposite end.

"Well, this wasn't how we were supposed to meet, my Lady." he said. "Prettier in person, she is."

She watched him blankly, tilting her head just slightly as she scrutinized him.

"What's your name?" she asked softly.

"Lady Alys!" he cackled. "Oh, my stupid summer child, they're coming for you, they are, the lot of them. You've hid in your pretty ivory towers all your life, child, and I'm only the first."

"Is that enough for you?" Jon asked, going to Sansa, putting himself between her and the assassin.

 _"'There once was a king called Ramsay._ _Who was fucking Lady Sansa on her knees!"_ the man began singing, loudly.

"Stop." Jon said, turning on his heel, his voice a low growl. Sansa swallowed.

_"She said "Stop your fucking!_ _There's a knight still coming!_ _So he said 'Bring him in let him see!'"_

Sansa turned for the door, hearing enough, her stomach sick with anger. She'd seen his face.

"Jon Snow! Do you think Cersei would have given me double if I'd sent her pretty cunt along with her pretty head?" he called.

Sansa froze, taken aback by the vileness of the remark. It was like being slapped in the face.

It happened quickly. Jon absorbed these words, and the decision was instantaneous, almost instinctual.

With one movement, he'd unsheathed Longclaw, and had crossed to the corner to pick up a crate. With a solid thud, he slammed it in front of the prisoner, and shoved his head over it. Jon moved him so violently and suddenly, the prisoner's arms, still attached to the wall, broke, and he cried out in anguish.

Before he had a chance to take another breath, Jon was wielding his sword. Sansa blinked, and watched the man's head roll away. She stared at it for a long moment, and the scars began twisting, the face turning into that of her Father's. The vision was so powerful, she could almost feel the sun on her face in King's Landing, the jeers of the crowd rang in her ears.

Her knees buckled and she crumpled, fainting.

* * *

"Oi, she's awake."

Arya's voice was coming through like she was underwater, morphed into something hardly recognizable to Sansa. Sansa stirred, moaning, the headache coming through before her eyesight did.

"Where's Jon?" she asked, sitting up, looking around. She only saw Ghost.

"He left for The Wall, for Bran. He wanted to wait for you to wake up...but...the maester wasn't sure how long you'd be out. You hit your head something fierce."

"What?" Sansa said, and then groaned, the pain worsening with each movement. "He's gone?"

"He's _been_ gone. It shouldn't be much longer, I suspect they'll be home tomorrow, or the day after, at the absolute latest."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"4 days, now." Arya said.

Sansa was surprised to see her younger sister's face in sincere relief. Rickon was at the foot of the bed, leaning against the post, watching his sister.

"You've had a fever for the past two days, after Jon left. You were having fits. Thought I was father, or Robb."

Sansa grimaced. She felt weak, despite how long she'd been unconscious.

"He left?" she whispered, surprised.

"I made him." Rickon said. "Bran needed to see a familiar face, and then Jon wouldn't let Arya go."

"You _made_ him?" Sansa asked, looking at her brother with a disbelieving face.

"He _is_ head of the House." Arya reminded Sansa. "Despite him never quite acting like it."

Rickon rolled his eyes.

The maester opened the chamber door, walking through holding a bottle.

"Lady Sansa, back with us at last." he said with a small smile. "We've been quite worried."

She managed a thin smile in return.

"How's your head?" he asked, as Arya stepped away to let him past.

"Really quite painful." she admitted, as he pressed his wrinkled palm against her face, and then examined the back of her head carefully.

"I can give you something for the pain, now that you're awake. The wound is healing properly now that the fever has gone, you shouldn't be in bed for more than a couple days."

She nodded, leaning back against the pillows. She sighed.

"Come up here with me." she said to Arya, patting the bed beside her.

Arya grinned, and climbed into the big bed with her sister. Sansa put her head on her Arya's shoulder, and wrapped her fingers around her hand.

"Anyone else come to kill me?" Sansa asked. Rickon and Arya exchanged a look.

"Nobody that hasn't been stopped yet." Rickon said. "Nobody has even got to upper levels."

"How many have tried?" she asked, surprised by this.

"You don't need to worry about that." Arya said. "They are criminals, desperate people, they're too stupid to get away with it. One just climbed up the wall and was greeted by 6 guards when he reached the top. Also Jon has not one, but four guards outside the door, and near doubled the perimeter guards. You can't hardly walk a foot without bumping into an infantryman."

Sansa swallowed, and digesting this information.

"Being back home...with Ramsay and Littlefinger dead...I suppose I felt like I was out of danger. I forgot about everything else."

"Everything else?" Rickon asked.

"Just...being a Stark." she said. "We will never be without enemies."


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi all! I know it has been.....literally so long. I've been itching to return to this story, and I reread it over the past few days and have a solid storyboard laid out again. Obviously, with the premier of season 7, things went in a very different direction than my story. But that's what fanfiction is for, right? So I'm continuing my weird little tale. I would love some feedback if you enjoy it. I am working on Chapter 30 as I publish this (Chapter 29) so stay tuned for more my darlings.

The Kingsroad was nearly empty this late into winter. The horses and men alike plowed through knee deep snow. The surrounding forests were silent, as though they were waiting and watching.

With the task they had on hand, Jon didn't seem to tire from this journey. Though most of his men were weary, most of the horses were worn, he pressed on, determined. Bran was the last piece of the puzzle. He was the final step in reuniting the family. If Jon could have everyone there, in Winterfell, surrounded by the heavy brick walls, protected by the loyal and brave swords of his army.

It was late afternoon, on their 9th day of travelling. Their normally short journey had been much slower than they anticipated, but they were finally nearly halfway. At this rate, Edd and the other brothers would be meeting them any moment now. On these long silent stretches of riding, when it was too cold to speak to one another, Jon found himself lost in thought. He would daydream, for hours at a time, staring into the white emptiness before him, thinking of Sansa. Thinking of the warmth of the bed they shared, her smile, her eyes. How much her face had changed in the past few months. He could feel she had awoken from her fall by then, that she was on the mend.

His thoughts would run in circles. Pieces of his happiness, flashes of her laughing, of her above him in that wine colored dress while the clamor of battle rang around them. Of her washing his wounds after he'd won back their home. The way she looked when she slept. Then he'd think of her scars, and the anger would bubble up. The face of the assassin would appear in his mind, and more anger would begin stirring. Then he'd force himself to settle, reminding himself how safe she was. Arya by her side, hundreds upon hundreds of men who were fiercely loyal and willing to die for his family. Not to mention, he would return to her soon, her brother in tow.

Finally, just as the sun was disappearing and Jon was about to announce they make camp, he saw figures in the distance. His heart leapt, and he had to force himself not to urge his horse ahead in excitement.

He recognized the black cloaks of the crows, and felt a strange pang of nostalgia. Then he saw clearly the face of Edd, and Ghost yelped in excitement and tore forward in the snow, hopping in the deep slush with ease.

The two parties met and stopped, and Jon dismounted. Some of the men parted, and he saw Bran then, sitting on a sled. He looked extraordinarily peaceful, and offered Jon a simple small smile, barely turning his mouth.

"Bran?" Jon said, walking towards him. Long gone was the face of the little boy he'd left so many years ago, sleeping amongst the furs, dwarfed by the bed. This was the face of a young man, his brow and jaw hardened. He fell into the snow beside the sled, on his knees, and gathered Bran in his arms. He was overcome with emotion, relief, and joy.

"It is so good to see you." Jon said, pulling away, his hands not leaving Bran's shoulders.

"Brother." Bran said. "So much you've gone through, since I last saw you. So much you've done. Father would be so proud."

This struck Jon deep, and he cleared his throat.

"Congratulations on your nuptials." Bran said, again with a small knowing smile.

"How do you know about that?" Jon asked, surprised.

"He knows about a lot of things." a familiar voice said behind him. He stood, and greeted his old friend Edd with a warm hug.

"Lord Commander." Jon said, and Edd did his best to look humble.

"It's good to see you in something other than black." he said. "You look like a proper Lord."

Jon grinned.

"Come. We need to make camp. We can trade stories over the fire, but we must find shelter."

* * *

Sansa felt completely better after her near week of bed rest, and was returning to the maester to make sure her head was as healed as it felt. She dressed herself in the morning, plaited her hair. Broke her fast with some boiled eggs and toast. She made her way to the maester's chamber right after, and he greeted her warmly at the door.

"So good to see the lady on her feet again." he said. "Come, come inside and sit a moment."

She settled into a chair and he began feeling around the base of her head. "You have been sleeping normally?" he asked.

"Yes." she said. "Some funny dreams last night, but I am quite used to those."

"Anything worth mentioning?"

"I dreamt of the day my father brought back the direwolf pups." she said. "How small they were. But then in my hands Lady turned to a real babe, barking and growling just like a dog would, but with the face of a child."

"How puzzling." the maester commented. "You know, seers often say if there is a baby in our dreams, it really represents our younger selves."

"Hmm." Sansa thought this over. "I suppose I would relate to an orphaned pup. It's a bit of a depressing notion, however."

"Despite your hardships my lady," he said as he carefully examined her eyes. "I daresay you have overcome, and found your own joy."

His words struck her as poignant, and she nodded.

"How is your health other than the fall m'lady?" he asked, turning towards the row of bottles behind him. "I can offer you a sleeping draft if your dreams continue to bother you."

"They usually return to normal when Jon is home." she said.

"And you are bleeding normally still?" he inquired. While her monthly bleeding had changed over the years, rarely being predictable or kind, since they'd been home she'd finally been on a normal cycle, that changed with the phase of the moon.

She thought about this now, having forgotten the last couple weeks. A realization dawned on her.

"Oh  _Gods._ " she said. The maester turned, arching a brow. " _I_ must have forgotten to take it. Oh no." she put her hand to her face. This had been her worst fear when she was with Ramsey, but she had rid herself of two of his children. She knew her womb was healthy, and clearly Jon was healthy too. Tears sprung up in her eyes, she wasn't sure if they were from joy, or fear, or a mingling of the two.

"How long has it been since your last?" the maester asked, calmly, taking a sheet of paper from his desk.

"I suppose two months now." she said. "I...oh gods. I always have a tendency to fall asleep following... _that._ And usually I take moontea the following morning, but I...perhaps it slipped my mind? How could I be this dull?"

"We tend to let our guard down when we are with someone who we trust completely." he said. "Lord Stark is a great man, a powerful man, and he loves you unconditionally. I'm sure children is something you've discussed before?"

"It is." she admitted. "But not for a long while. Not in the state the world is in now. It's not safe."

"No, it's not safe." he agreed. "Not for you, or any of the Starks, or any of us I suppose."

"Maybe it won't ever be." Sansa said. She was staring, her eyes unseeing, at the bookshelf across from her.

"M'lady, you know your options. A simple dose of moontea would be all it takes. We have the power to wait until you are ready."

"I want to wait until he's home." she said. "More than anything, I want to speak to him about it."

"Understandable." he said. "If there is a possibility, even a slim one, of keeping the child, I advise no more wine or spirits until you know for sure. And if you must ride, wear heavy padding around your womb."

She blinked up at him.

"Do  _you_ think it's a good idea to keep it?" she whispered. He gave her a small, gentle smile.

"I know it is not my place to say one way or the other." he said. "I am not on your council, m'lady. I am merely here to help in whatever you choose. Either way, try and continue your life normally. Try not to dwell on it too much. Once Lord Stark returns, then you can settle the issue."

* * *

Dawn was breaking in the camp, but Jon had been awake an hour or more. He'd had perplexing dreams, and he awoke feeling as though something had changed. They'd spent the night discussing things over the fire, Bran had told him about the advancement of the Night's King. Soon, Cersei and her assassins would seem like petulant children compared to the army that headed towards his home and family. He'd agreed to send men to the Wall, a good group of them, to monitor the situation and begin preparing for the battle. The wall was the first defense. Without proper men, it was a useless one.

As the morning continued, the camp was packed up, and then men seemed impatient to finish their journey. They had brought another sled for Bran, one that could be pulled by horses easier, and that allowed Bran to sit up higher, not at everyone's knees.

He bid his farewells to Edd, thanking him again and again for bringing his brother to him safely.

"We do miss you, Jon." Edd said. "A lot of us do. But I cannot tell you how happy I am that your life has played out the way it has. There's not any man I know who deserves it more than you."

"I'll be seeing you again soon, Lord Commander."

They exchanged hugs, and Jon watched as the crows returned to the northern bound Kingsroad.

"To home we go." he said to his party, and the journey continued.

As the day wore on, Jon fell back, riding alongside Meera and Bran, who shared the sled. Bran was in a meditative state, his eyes closed, seemingly dead to the world.

"You say your name is Meera?" Jon asked.

"Meera Reed." she nodded.

" _Gods,_ Reed?" Jon asked in bewilderment. "I know your father. I saw him, months ago."

"He's a good man." Meera nodded. "I don't know if he deserved what we did to him. But it had to be done."

"I owe him an enormous debt. He confirmed my parentage, the first person to ever do so."

"Bran told me of your parents as well." she said. "I am glad the Starks have you, Jon Snow. You will serve an important role in the war to come."

He'd heard this before, from Melisandre, and the prophecy filled him with unease. He wasn't sure why the Gods had decided this fate for him, decided his importance, but most days he didn't feel deserving of it at all.

"You have kept him safe, all this time." Jon said to her. "My family owes you a great debt, as well, I suppose. You returned home my brother, you kept him alive, even in his state."

"It's my job." she said. "We do not question the fates, we only surrender to their call."

He thought about this for a while.

"What do the fates want us to do about the Night King?"

"All I know is that you are important. So is the Dragon Queen. Your Aunt. You are both immeasurably important to the coming times. It is probably why you have continually evaded death, even triumphed it."

He looked at her, and her dark eyes, curled hair like his.

"You do have the answers within yourself, Jon. You have to learn to listen."


	30. Chapter 30

The rest of the Winterfell-bound journey continued without much incident. The days were short, the nights were cold, but eventually the towers of the castle broke against the horizon as they crossed over the wide field.

"Gods that's a big castle." Meera commented.

"It doesn't move like yours does." Jon remarked. She gave a small grin.

"You're right, sure couldn't." she said, and turned to Bran. "Which tower did you fall from?"

Bran closed an eye and pointed, indicating one of the highest spires.

"It's been rebuilt of course." he said. "But that's the one."

Meera shook her head, aghast.

Jon tried to maintain his brewing excitement, and did so successfully. He kept a strong calm face. How many years did he go without the touch of a woman? He could last another couple moments. Not to mention, this was a deeply important moment. He was about to see all his siblings, living, together at last, in their home.  _Their_ home, completely theirs.

The gates opened, and the party rode through. In the courtyard, waiting at the base of the steps, was Arya, Rickon, Sansa. Nymeria and Shaggydog were politely sat beside some crates, but when they caught sight of Ghost, they both stood, tails thumping.

Jon met Sansa's eye for a brief moment, but then the three were rushing Bran, welcoming him. He met their cries with a calm, patient, even kindness. Sansa swept her younger brother into her arms, tears dropping into his hair. Rickon climbed directly into the sled with him, curling up beside him, looking like a little child again, at the foot of Bran's bed, wrapped in furs. Arya stood nearby, smiling, but no tears gathered in her eyes.

The courtyard had come to pause, observing the touching scene. There were still a handful of people in Winterfell who'd lived with the Stark children, and before them their parents, for years. True loyal subjects, who loved Ned and Catelyn, loved the Stark children like their own family. Now the home felt balanced again, and watching and hearing the happy shouts and laughs of them felt like old times. It felt like the world was safe again, if only for a moment.

Jon had dismounted, handing his horse over to a stableboy. Quietly, moving away from her brother, Sansa floated to him, and he wrapped her tightly in his cloak, kissing her on the cheek.

"I am so glad to see you on your feet." he whispered into her hair. "I hardly slept a wink, worrying about you."

"Bit dramatic it was." she said, waving her hand, dismissing the issue. "Welcome home, Lord Stark."

Sansa turned to the rest of her siblings, not letting go of Jon as she did.

"I had them prepare a meal, it's waiting for everyone in the Great Hall. I'm sure our travelers could use some warm food in their bellies."

As the group made it's way to the hall, Sansa fell back, introducing herself to Meera, who, without the duty of pulling his sled, seemed a little detached from the group.

"I suppose you wouldn't want to be referred to as "Lady Reed"?" Sansa inquired, and Meera looked at her feet.

"No, m'lady, I don't deserve such a title, I haven't been a Lady in many years."

"You deserve a better one." Sansa said. "After everything you've gone through for my family." she took Meera's hand, squeezing it, hard. "Anything you need, please ask. You will always have a home here. Your children, your children's children. We owe you an enormous debt."

Meera was struck by this, and unsure how to respond.

"After the meal, I've had baths prepared, for both you and my brother. Would you like a seperate sleeping chamber from Bran, or would you rather stay together?"

"He's been all I've known these past years." she replied honestly. "I know it's a bit untoward. He's hardly left my sight, I don't know how I could sleep."

"Don't even think of it then." Sansa said. "I'll have a double room prepared."

The double doors to the dining hall opened. There was a hearty feast waiting at the head table. Roasted elk, roasted chicken, boiled potatoes, mushroom stew, buttery vegetable pies, brown bread, cinnamon baked apples. The rest of the travelers filed in behind the family, and soon the hall was lively with noise. Jon's men poured ale for themselves, laughing and trading tales. Jon and Sansa were seated at the head of the hall, eating their own shares, when Arya approached the pair.

"Bran is different." she commented.

"Aye." Jon agreed. "It's been explained to me. He's a chosen figure, the Three Eyed Raven. Privy to visions and secrets of the world nobody else can see or share in."

"He told me something." Arya said. "About myself. Something nobody knows."

"He has a tendency to do that." Jon said, taking another bite of bread. "He knows things. Probably knows all our fates of the coming war. He knew about us moments after I had seen him." he said to Sansa

"Gods." Sansa muttered. "I am glad he's ours then. Safe here, with us."

Arya inclined her head slightly. "Now that the happy reunion is over, I have work to be done."

"Stay." Sansa said. "The men will live a day without your wise guidance Lady Stark."

Arya's eyes flashed, but she didn't comment.

"Arya, we've only just returned." Jon said.

"There's no rest in the days of war." Arya said. "You should know that better than anyone." She turned sharply on her heel, and marched out of the hall.

Jon shook his head.

"You don't think she's right?" Sansa said, a little quieter.

"Not really." he said. "I think we have some joy in our lives now. I think we should enjoy it while we can."

Sansa thought then of the life growing in her belly. Her nerves made her heart begin to pound double time. She'd been debating internally over the past few days on how to break the news to him. She knew he would be happy, thrilled even, but the fear she had almost overpowered her desire to make him happy. After all she'd gone through in her life, she pictured the same fates happening to another child, only this time hers. Perhaps, years from now, another great King would demand Jon's aide, like Robert had asked for her father's, and he would pack up himself and their children and suffer the same fate her father did. Her daughters would be wed off and raped, her sons killed in battle or by their enemies. She placed the fork full of food down on her plate, overcome with a wave of nausea and anxiety.

She played out how it would go in her head. That Jon would assure her they would always be safe. But what if she lost Jon, what could she do to protect her own children, by herself? She was no fighter, she was not strong. She could survive, of course, in her own way, politically balancing her own life through manipulations and niceties. She could survive the worst of human horrors, torture, abuse. She glanced at a scar on her wrist and shuddered. This cunning wouldn't serve her children. This balance she had so delicately struck was only for her benefit, how could she withstand seeing anyone in her family face the same?

"Sansa." Jon said quietly, pulling her out of her head. He'd been studying her face, how her eyes had gotten lost suddenly, darting around nervously. She looked at him, and offered a reassuring smile. The concern did not leave him, though, and he took her hand, rubbing his thumb along the back of it.

"I'm glad you're home." she whispered earnestly. "When you're done, go bathe. I'll wait for you in our chambers. I should go speak with Bran."

She stood, and he watched her as she walked away. She settled next to Meera, across from Bran, at the end of the table. She marveled at his face for a moment, still awestruck by his return, by the familiarity in the dark brows and eyes.

"Sister." he said. "You worry."

She swallowed.

"How could I not?" she countered. "In times like these. But you are safe now, a blessing."

"We are safe now, yes." he agreed. "I don't think I could have imagined returning to a home like this, when I first left. Arya at the head of the army. Jon and you...together. How funny the fates have fared this family. I'm so sorry, though, Sansa, for what you went through. For all of it. Your young life deserved far better."

"No matter." Sansa said, trying to not dwell on it. "We all went through trials. I suppose we are stronger because of it."

"You sound like father." Bran said.

She looked at her hands.

"You are unsure, though, how to tell Jon." Bran said. "You are unsure if you want this pregnancy to continue."

Even Meera looked surprised at his comment, and Sansa's head snapped up. Bran didn't look bothered at all, but instead settled his eyes on Sansa's.

"Children are born and die in winter. Some children never have a chance to see the sun." he said. "Yours will see the sun, Sansa."

"I saw the sun." she said. "Arya saw it. Robb. Mother. Father. We all saw it. That doesn't mean it came without tragedy."

"There's rarely a life that does." he said.

"I'm sure you intend for that to comfort me."

"I don't mean to comfort anyone." he said simply. "I mean to enlighten."

She shook her head. Her brother had been gone so many years and she immediately swelled him with her own problems.

"Go talk to Jon." Bran insisted, seemingly reading her mind. "You won't feel better until you do."

She took his hands and kissed them. "Thank you, brother."

* * *

Evening was coming quickly at Winterfell, so Sansa hurriedly crossed the castle to go change into some nightclothes. The fire in the chamber they shared had already been lit, but she went around the room, igniting some candles as well.

As she waited for him, she nervously paced around the room. Eventually, the door swung open. His hair was still slightly damp from the bath, making it look curlier than usual.

"My Sansa." he sighed as he shut the door behind him. "What a sight for sore eyes you are."

Normally such a statement would make her melt. But the nerves wouldn't allow it. She stiffened, wringing her hands.

"What happened?" he asked, noticing her mood. He went to the table in the corner, pouring himself an ale. "You seem so worried."

"I'm with child." she blurted, and felt tears beginning to press at the back of her eyes.

He paused, and set the pitcher back upon the table. She watched him, anxiously, waiting to read his expression.

He turned, walking towards her. Her eyes flitted across his face, trying to drink in the limited information he offered her. He looked dazed almost. Suddenly, he fell to his knees before her, and wrapped his arms around her middle.

A sob of relief escaped her. He pressed his forehead into her stomach, taking a heavy breath in. When he looked up at her, she saw his eyes were also brimming with moisture, and his face was lit with joy.

"Oh  _gods_ Jon." she whimpered. "I don't know what to do."

"Sansa." he said, and she sunk to the floor as well. He cradled her face, marveling at her beauty, her clear eyes, her porcelain skin. "It's going to be alright."

"What if we can't keep them safe, Jon?" she asked. "I only just got my family back, broken, half gone. After years of this, of being apart, of trials and pain. I only just was reunited with my brother, and I immediately have to question everything all over again."

His heart sunk, breaking for his bride.

"Listen to me." he said. "I will tell you this, but if it doesn't convince you, if you are still unsure, we can just wait."

She paused, waiting for him to finish.

"Almost every battle I've been in, every time my sword has been brandished, I've been fighting for myself, a singular life. Of course, I was fighting to defend the wall, the realm even, in theory. But in those moments when you see nothing but another sword or weapon coming at you, being wielded by a wildling or even the undead, you are very simply fighting to survive. Fighting for yourself."

She nodded, agreeing. Survival was all she'd known. And survival, when broken down, is simply a selfish act.

"Since I've been with you, since I saw the flash of red hair at the east window, I've been fighting for us both. When my sword meets another, since then, it is not 'fight to save your own life' it is 'fight to see her again.'"

Tears began rolling down her face as she listened.

"You've changed me, Sansa. My life has different meaning now. My will to live...it's only stronger. Any child you give me would only enhance that. I know it. It would make  _us_ stronger, all of us. Our house would have an heir, our home would gain another Stark back, after losing so many."

She absorbed these words, and it felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Jon climbed to his feet, and pulled her up with him. He guided her, gently, to their bed, pulling back the blankets.

"My queen." he said as she settled into the bed, and he climbed in behind her. "I had such plans to ravish you, take my bride in my bed."

She laughed, brushing away the tears. He pulled her against his chest, stroking her long hair.

"We should rest." he said. "Sansa, no matter what happens, I am still entirely yours, as long as I draw breath in this realm, I belong to you."

"And I to you." she whispered into his neck. She felt his hand slide over her stomach, and wondered if he even had a conscious thought about it, or if this movement now came instinctively.


End file.
